Ramblings of Artisanal Libations RSS

Seeking a better understanding of that illusive enigma—simple and ethereal— which has inspired human beings to ponder and pillage.

To dive into the timeless and delectable dichotomy—that which unites farmers, philosophers and creators. And, that which delivers us back to, while reminding us the importance of our mother earth.

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Yountville: Keller Country

Some might suggest that those of us who truly admire Thomas Keller would prefer to see him in Yountville, more than any other place on earth.  Terribly presumptuous and selfish of us—controlling, one might even say.  But this may have something to do with a singular experience that one has had the pleasure imbibing at the Laundry.  Those who might find it odd to see this saintly man—humble and consummately kind—in a big city like New York, or a vacuous miasma like Vegas, would prefer, no doubt, to see him back home.  His brand of unadulterated cool—something reminiscent an unending jam-session with Yo-Yo Ma, Wynton Marsalis and Willie Nelson—seems to thrive even more among the grapes.

For those who have been lifted to the heights of culinary ecstasy whilst sitting in the dining room of the French Laundry, only to say, “I wish I could just drift off to sleep right here,” you’re in luck.  After six-years of negotiations with the Yountville city council, Keller’s 20-room boutique inn has been approved.  Its location: directly across the street from the French Laundry; a safe walk, to say the least.  What exactly took the city council six-years to negotiate—considering the guy on the other side of the table is one of the most thoughtful, methodical and environmentally conscientious men around—speaks loudly to the efficacy of bureaucracy.

Point of clarification: it’s not that anyone wants Mr. Keller to be a prisoner of Yountville—most would welcome him to travel the world eating, sharing and spreading the gospel.  We just want him to come home when he’s finished.

The last time we had the pleasure of seeing him, he was sitting at the bar in front of Taka-san, at Jinpachi—the best Japanese restaurant in LA (yes, I am including Urasawa and Go’s-Mart).  It was an honor to share space with the master, in another room where I had also been lifted to ethereal levels of culinary heights.  It was an odd and beautiful circle, completed by happenstance, or perhaps something else, in this life-long mandala of food and drink.