The French Laundry
Chef’s Tasting Menu
March 9, 2022
ARRIVAL
Amuse-Bouche
“OYSTERS AND PEARLS”
GARDEN “CRISPINO” ICEBERG WEDGE
PACIFIC SHIMA AJI TARTARE
NOVA SCOTIA LOBSTER GALETTE
“BREAD AND BUTTER”
APPLEWOOD SMOKED WOLFE RANCH WHITE QUAIL
“GOUGÈRE”
CELEBRATORY INTERLUDE
ASSORTMENT OF DESSERTS
DEPARTURE
ARRIVAL
The French Laundry, world-famous, intentionally quaint, no-holds-barred coliseum of Californian cuisine, the extended gauntlet of chef-of-note Thomas Keller with which he entices the wine-drunk and wealthy and rewards them with extravagant fare, is located in a "modest" town near Napa. The walkway is well-lit and heated, an over-the-top affordance in a land that never freezes. We step briefly into the manicured garden, populated chiefly by close-cropped grass and gently graceful Adirondack chairs, but we make no headway before multiple eager, smiling staffers usher us into a farmhouse dining room where all is tasteful and spare.
This is the perfect plainness only attainable through fabulous wealth. It has a purpose: the French Laundry is here to elevate, situate, flatter, and feed its guests—but never to upstage them. People come here to eat together, to enjoy each other's company. That is the noble aspiration of the French Laundry, legible in everything they do: no matter what magic they deliver, they want you to remember not the meal itself, but how it felt to share it.
Somehow, they will achieve this goal through an incomprehensibly complex battery of impeccable service and modernist cuisine.
It’s not lost on me that a thorough assessment of the restaurant requires a mindset incompatible with its central purpose. Usually, when I review a restaurant, I do so alone. It feels like a disservice to my dinnermates to be frantically scribbling notes while they’re attempting to enjoy a meal with me. But tonight I make an exception. The French Laundry has invited this paradox by attempting to both have and eat their cake, trying to be friendly and accessible while being so damn fancy. So you won’t get much of the conversation I shared with my friends, the lighthearted ribbing, the repartee of strong opinions about herbs and dining, the varied attitudes towards alcohol, the colorful careers, or even the phenomenal outfits.
Consider us, like the staff, to be mostly invisible. We are here to facilitate your experience of this review.
The staff are tiered: at the bottom are table service. They are ghosts, mostly young and local-feeling, all identically dressed in black suiting. Every single one of them, regardless of gender, wears a liberal amount of hair product. God forbid a stray strand might fall. They rush around without expression, smoothly apologetic, appearing and disappearing without a trace. In the middle of the hierarchy are the hosts. Hosts must be warm, and are therefore allowed to exhibit a modicum of personality. Even so, they are so smoothly interchangeable I can hardly remember who did what for us. One takes my hat and coat, and another mentions it later without prompting, as if they are possessed of a shared consciousness, a collective short-term memory of all that happens inside these walls.
Spectral escorts guide us upstairs. All six of us are goggle-eyed and buoyant. We are all guests of our magnanimous friend Edmund Zagorin, who on occasion of his birthday splashed out to bring us this once-in-a-lifetime meal. We look unusually good. The dress code called for suit coats, a rare ask in California, and we all wanted to rise to the occasion.
As I sit, I feel a slight tug in my suit and recall that I'm wearing my best belt, cinched all the way in for pants that fit me for the first time in eight years. I left no margin for error when I bought these pants, tailoring them exactly for who I was, but not who I might eventually be. The fact that I’ve returned to my former shape is a happy accident of extraordinarily clean living and adrenaline management. Anyone can approach perfection on occasion. Living it every day is another challenge entirely. These chefs would know.
While I am sober, most of our party is warm and giggly from an afternoon wine tasting. Even the giggliest of us seem self-conscious of our group’s loudness. For us, this is a stretch, an occasion, a celebration, but around us, all other conversations are muted.
In fact, everything is muted. The walls are a soft lavender, with no details or molding to draw the eye. The enormous mirrors have plain gold rims with rounded corners. The linens are stark white, starched and bleached. A very tall candle stands in the center of the table, seated in a featureless golden candleholder. The candle, we would later find, is sized to last for the entire duration of the meal and a little longer. There is a huge, richly fragrant bouquet in a massive urn directly behind Edmund’s seat (appropriate, as he is extremely fond of floral fragrances), but the arrangement is modest in tone, all drought-tolerant plants in shades of gray, sage, and lavender—a nod to the restaurant’s focus on local providers and sustainability.
It’s all tasteful but a bit humorless. The sconces, at least, have a joke to tell: their lampshades have laundry symbols stamped into them. Like everything here, it rewards attention without demanding it. The sole decorative flex in the room is the plates, already set for the first course. They are very wide and very thick, heavily lacquered over concentric circles of metallic flecks. The contemporary pattern sticks out in such a farmhouse-feeling room, a harbinger of the modern cuisine soon to come.
We sit and socialize, confronting oversize and overweight menus. There are two tastings available, vegetarian and non. Each menu has a couple of options available, alternate courses featuring wagyu beef and truffles, for a modest surcharge of $100 and change each. We pretend to consider these options before ordering the standard fare, no upgrades please. The menus disappear as more ghosts quietly deliver water into astoundingly thin glasses. I opt for sparkling.
We now encounter the top of the service hierarchy: the sommelier. Our sommelier is, as solely he is allowed to be, conspicuous. Where others have black suits and black ties, he has a brown suit with a light blue windowpane pattern woven into it, an extremely wide-cut spread collar, and a gold-mottled tie whose knot borders on full-windsor thickness. His watch, too, is large and loud. Even his features stand out: he has close cropped red hair, very fair skin, and a hard-earned air of confident ease. He is at the top of his game, at one of the most desirable posts in the service industry. Of course he must wow.
He jokes with us, an unthinkable privilege of his position compared to the rest of the staff's deference, and guides us through a wine selection that is entirely above my head. I do catch that he likes acidic wines, and his recommendations would later prick that point home with several sorts of pucker and sparkle. We confirm the selection does not include any thousand-dollar bottles. He nods his reassurance and struts off to retrieve our first taste.
The sommelier pours something white into our hand-blown wine glasses. The gold color of the wine complements the green of the wine glass stems. After the sommelier disappears, our table toasts our friendship. Despite their thinness, the glasses are strong and resilient. They are tested by a toast, clink resonating less like glass and more like the cross of daggers. A trusty sidearm to carry you through life's trials.
The wine is, as promised, light and acidic. It probably came of age in a steel container. I sip very slowly, wanting to save my palate for the food to come. And soon, it does.
AMUSE-BOUCHE
The dish, as well as all that follow, is announced in a well-practiced spiel. The delivery is dry and impersonal, full of useful context but easy to miss as we ogle the plates. We see a little ice-cream-cone-shaped concoction, a thin and crispy wafer wrapped around a whipped filling of salmon-flavored cream cheese, all topped with everything bagel seasoning. It has a satisfying snap against the teeth, and the filling within has an indulgent, childlike texture.
It feels like the product of a portraitist at the carnival, too adult to enjoy the funnel cakes and cotton candy, rendering in careful detail the expression on children’s faces as they dash around with big smiles and smeared cheeks. It’s a little too cool and clean, an arm’s length hug of that messy-faced child. Off to the side is a half-dollar sized cracker sandwich, two crackers with an intensely savory white cheese filling, an elevated take on Ritz cheese crackers. This one hits the nostalgia note more directly. It’s the sort of snack parents bring for themselves, more familiar for its simplicity, in contrast to the overcareful take on carnival food.
“OYSTERS AND PEARLS”
“Sabayon” of Pearl Tapioca with Island Creek Oysters and Regüs Ova Caviar
I am told this is a classic dish, frequently showing up on the daily rotating menu. It has earned its spot. The custard is served in a small depression in a beautiful plate (pre-warmed to help hold the temperature, I’m sure), set in another beautiful plate, set in a third beautiful plate. The plates all have a houndstooth texture on their surface, an elaboration on the laundry theme that helps clarify the subtle weave of the tablecloth. We are handed hand-carved mother-of-pearl spoons to eat with.
The custard has the color and comfort of a baby’s blanket, a soft yellow that envelops your mouth with cozy warmth. The oysters are a gentle nudge, massaging but not disturbing as you luxuriate in the smooth and soporific texture. This is all lovely, but there is a more important, more memorable note struck here by the introduction of savory, salty caviar. There is a breathiness, the feeling of a veil drawn over the face, suggesting a world beyond the blanket.
In my everyday life, I sometimes find it hard to take comfort at face value. It’s hard for me to forget that all respite is temporary, and I’m often uncertain of each comforter’s awareness of the world beyond. Have they internalized the risks, the wheels turning in the world, the points of failure a misstep can produce? Have they dealt with hardship themselves, recovered and learned from it, and has that wisdom informed their invitation to relax? I can’t sleep in an ignorant embrace.
The breathy suggestion provided by the caviar’s depth is an acknowledgement of the trials of the outside world. Yes, we know it’s out there, but right now we’re in here, and we’re safe.
As we conclude our first course, our empty wine glasses are whisked away and replaced by truly massive goblets, their lips curled outward. The sommelier fills these ostentatious glasses with a big fancy red. This red seems to have a lurid past, one it refuses to share but keeps dropping hints about. It's light and a little fruity, reminding me of Spanish wines I've had, but I'm no expert. I feel the passing urge to spill it on the tablecloth, mark the inhumanly white fabric. Whether this suggestion came from the glass, the wine, or somewhere else, I can’t say. The urge passes as new plates arrive.
GARDEN “CRISPINO” ICEBERG WEDGE
Brokaw Avocado Mousse, Compressed Radishes, Cured Cucumbers,
and Buttermilk-Dill Dressing
Omitted from the description are the most crucial garnishes: crisped cheese, redolent with griddle-smoke, and an impossible microsandwich of egg, a torus of yolk with white layered above and below. The center of the egg torus has been punched and lies concealed beneath nearby greens. The oil drizzle smoothes over the peppery radishes, and the briny cucumbers are sliced razor-thin, a nod to the Japanese salad in which they star. The lettuce is bafflingly thin and crisp, surely mere minutes from the prep table to our own, and the avocado mousse beneath fixes everything in place. The overall impression is that of a trendy dress, sheer against the skin of someone you will never meet, who is wearing it on a single summer night and never again.
Our group has begun to open up. The dash of fresh dill, noted by fellow diner Ilana as the herb of her people, spurs a debate of the best Jewish delis back home. Shoulders relax as we finally slip into casual banter. After all, our group is not yet well acquainted, and you could hardly pick higher stakes for a get-to-know-you meal. As we chat, it occurs to me that you wouldn't want to come here alone. Even for a couple it seems it would feel slow and dry, though perhaps they accelerate the service for smaller tables. For six though, the pacing feels generous. The long stretches of lighthearted chat are welcome, allowing time for food to settle and flavors to fade, leaving our palates ready for something new.
PACIFIC SHIMA AJI TARTARE
Coconut Purée, Toasted Sesame “Arlette,” Wild Sorrel and Green Apple Gastrique
We take a trip to the ocean with this saccharine celebration of the Shima Aji, a Japanese warm-water fish that symbolizes summer. Pieces of fish are gelled together with coconut purée and formed into a flat circle, topped with flower-shaped radish slices. The arlette is also flat and flower-shaped, its black and white sesame seeds a distinct contrast in color, scent, and flavor against the tropical mix surrounding it. Arcing across the top of the plate is a powerful streak of green apple purée, and edible flowers add pops of color all over. To the right of it all is a child-sized spoon with which to eat.
The dish tastes youthful and bright. The coconut is oversweet, making things feel twee. The gastrique helps moderate the sugar with a brief burst of acid, followed by the familiar airy aftertaste of concentrated green apple, a flavor that reminds me of Apple Jacks and Fruity Pebbles. Overall, the dish would be a disappointment but for the crucial maturity of the sesame cracker, which serves as anchor and counterpoint with its slightly bitter toastiness. Without it, the dish would be too insubstantial, like a guest whose charming demeanor belies a complete absence of depth. The cracker is that guest’s intriguing scar. Even throughout dull conversations, you’re curious how they got it.
At the tail end of our fish, a new red comes, and with it an egg-shaped glass. This wine has more body, a little tannic edge, but is still undemanding. Genteel but muscular, it escorts us deeper underwater as we begin our second seafood course.
NOVA SCOTIA LOBSTER GALETTE
La Ratte Potato Purée, Crispy Cipollini Onion, Garden Green Garlic, and Pomegranate Vinaigrette
A sauteed sprig of green garlic rests on an onion ring, all atop a cake of lobster centered in a broad and saucy plate. This lobster is the firmest lobster. Its moisture has been drawn out with utter care, making it almost steaklike. The sauce has two rings, a savory soya inner and a kicky sour outer. The onion ring has the sweetest, gentlest onion inside. Its breading is delicate, almost like tempura. The green garlic sprig has great character, a hearty partner for the firm lobster that leaves you with a satisfying grassy finish. It is a transitional dish: the lobster and its sprightly greens encircle our ankles, lead us out of the surf and spray to plant our feet in loamy sand. Here we are better prepared to handle the meaty expressions of earth and air to come.
The deeper we get into the play, the more I want to see past its proscenium. Who helped stage the drama of this jolly lobster? What was the director’s vision, what scenes were cut and added? Clues are hidden throughout these little dishes. Every technique and ingredient is a whispered rumor winding backward through the kitchen, through the chef's hands, into the soil of the local farms detailed in the carefully-printed packet they will hand each of us at the end of the night. Though the wine sensitizes me to these whispers, it also makes them harder to grasp. Sharp focus dissipates as my overstimulated brain becomes entwined in buzzy conversation. I cannot see it all; I know I will overlook something important.
But not the bread.
“BREAD AND BUTTER”
Bitter Cocoa Laminated Brioche and Diane St. Clair’s Animal Farm Butter
I'm not sure this bread earns its quotation marks. It smells amazing: caramely, flaky, buttery. There is a swirl of cocoa inside, just the barest hint of flavor. It hearkens back to one of my favorite gimmicked loaves, Michigan bakery Zingerman's dark chocolate sourdough, in which big bitter chunks pop among tangy, glutenous sourdough. I plowed through those loaves in the one summer I spent in Michigan after college. It had less to say than this course, but said it more than loud enough to hear.
This course’s delicacy is frustrating. Where at first the endless parade of fragility caused me to hold back and analyze, here it inspires a form of cute aggression: I want to crush it. The bread is lightly salted, the butter is not. I would vote for a warmer, saltier butter. I want to be indulged. There is a Protestant-level extremity of restraint here, a totally teasing game of peek-a-boo with the tiniest possible variations in flavor. “Oh, more salt? I just couldn't,” it seems to say. “You’re not really here to eat, are you? I thought we were only playing at being food.” I can feel its judgment on me, its cinnamon curve an arched brow, condemning me. Perhaps a more refined person could transcend the need for nutrients, for flavor. But I am only a man. A man who is angry at a saltless bun.
Bread and butter is so often the anchor and backstop of a restaurant. It is familiar, coarse, and filling. Here, in its elevated form, those roles are far, far away. When a plain comfort is so hollowed out, it takes a bold gesture to take diners somewhere different. Instead, saltless, I am left wistful for what’s missing. An anxious gap for the next course to fill.
APPLEWOOD SMOKED WOLFE RANCH WHITE QUAIL
Creamed Swiss Chard, Braised Garden Celery, Broccoli Blossoms and
Red Cabbage Essence
The quail is crisp with paper-thin skin. Remarkably rich and smoky, almost ducklike, a wonderful complement to the tannins of whatever wine we're now having, and the cabbage melds in perfectly. A layer of herbs under the skin is soaked through with fatty juices, adding depth and texture. The ravioli on the side is a little stiff, the color and flavor of a squid ink splash, an edible evening jacket for the cheese within. Amidst this mix of savory textures, the celery makes its voice heard, a distinct opinion, cool and clear.
The substance, the flavors, and the quality of the dish are all relentlessly physical. The first few courses were whimsical and light almost to a fault, but the lobster made inroads to something more real. The quail delivers on the lobster’s promise. It is the first and only dish of the night that evokes farmhouse wholesomeness. There is something to be said for food so good, so present, that it staves off all attempts at metaphor. Forget the out-of-reach stranger in the summer dress. This dish loves you back.
By now the lights have dimmed. We're two hours in, and I can no longer keep up. The dishes contain more than I have room to hold, and attending to every detail makes it impossible to participate in the meal. The wine, the company, and my own fullness all tempt. Eventually I yield, turning off the buzz of my own rapid assessments to laugh with friends.
I sneak glances at the rest of the dining hall. They are so disappointingly composed. Right next to us, a brilliantly dressed couple silently pecks at their food. Their mouths hardly move for spoon or conversation. The only sign of life is their occasional eye contact, and even that feels incidental. Is this meal that pedestrian? Have they run so hard on the hedonic treadmill that there is no pleasure left to extract from the phenomenal array of flavors bombarding them, nor even from their mutual elegance and grace?
The problem with such white-glove service is that if someone arrives asleep, there is no-one to justle them awake. To be unimpressed is one thing. To sleep through a meal like this is unforgivable. I have but one night to take this all in, and I’m actively failing. Meanwhile they, I assume, could come here every week, indeed maybe already do, and I’m not sure they’ve tasted a thing.
My laughing friends pull me back. I shake my head, remember my gratitude as I gather my remaining focus for the final sprint. Those ghosts haven’t finished with us yet.
SNAKE RIVER FARMS “CALOTTE DE BŒUF”
Sweet Potato Purée, Smoked Nantes Carrots, Garden Turnips and
Whole Grain Mustard Jus
A couple of tiny potato chips hang out on a ribeye island in the middle of a maroon pool. On the opposite shore, sweet potato purée and a spray of vegetables exalt a single roasted carrot. The study in opposites holds a surprise: the sauce is juiced up with a little fresh horseradish, a plucky complement to the rare and yielding consistency of sous-vide beef.
The flavors are bold, the contrast unmistakeable. This dish’s dress and breeding may be sophisticated, but its point is bluntly made. The bluntness is an act of compassion. It requires no finesse, no careful bite management to understand and enjoy. After a marathon of tightrope walks, a dish that leaves ample room for error is a relief. It is a retired heavyweight, lightfooted but with a powerful punch, cussing good naturedly as it receives each of our handshakes in turn.
The beef’s muscularity would win a fight with most wines, but our sommelier has earned his right to smirk: our red is up to the task. We move on.
“GOUGÈRE”
Andante Dairy “Etude” and Black Winter Truffle “Fondue”
With one blow of the spoon, a luxurious burst of soft cheese erupts from its spherical pastry shell. It is white-collar comfort food, the sort Whole Foods would aspire to stock: creamy and unchallenging, suggesting complexity while remaining accessible. This is the sort of snack a wealthy shopper would splurge on instead of ice cream, a replacement for a missed dinner, complement for a movie and a glass of wine. But no production bakery could conjure a crust this thin, and no food scientist would sign off on such an incredible density of cheese. The milky softness is accented by parmesan funk, and the truffles whisper from the background where they belong. The biscuit has a little extra crust on the bottom, a great base for spoons to prod. I wonder what causes the specks in the cream.
The sommelier returns. This is—must be— the last wine. It is sparkling pink, very acidic, a sweeter mirror of the first wine of the evening, with no trace of minerality. It has an exuberant effervescence, utterly shameless. Our palates are no longer critical enough to care. In the background, the soundtrack has drifted into the 70's. Until now it’s been butt rock, boomer-friendly hits full of loud guitars and big male tenors. Now it's Bowie. Dessert lies on another planet.
CELEBRATORY INTERLUDE
Here we pause for the birthday cake. It is very wide, very rectangular, and very narrow. In front of it is a sparkler. We sing, inducing perhaps the first raised eyebrows of the evening from our relentlessly nonplussed neighboring tables. As we conclude, Edmund blows out the sparkler. It is the first time anyone has done that here. Though some have tried, the server says. We get a rare smile.
I'm now sure I'll conclude the evening full. It is never an expectation with a tasting menu, and occasionally I’ll even pregame to ensure I won’t go hungry. But tonight I came hungry and the risk paid off. The pacing was intuitive, the portions varied, and the proteins did exactly what they needed to. I'm mentally prepared for an insubstantial and wispy dessert.
ASSORTMENT OF DESSERTS
Fruit, Ice Cream, Chocolate and Candies
Talk about an understatement. We receive a table-blanketing array of options, four distinct desserts plated for each person along with truffles, caramels, a selection of chocolates, tins of shortbread, and entirely unnecessary bowls of fried donut poofs in case anyone is feeling gluttonous. We all have our tea and coffee to wash it down. The four desserts are:
Hazelnut praline birthday cake, yielding to the fork but crackling with a network of crispy sweet threads layered throughout. We clearly did not get the entire cake, which is too large for any table they might seat here. I later confirm that indeed there is a show cake in the back. This one though, cool and textural, is extremely good.
An espresso cup full of frothed milk, under which lies a luxurious coffee mousse. It feels almost as concentrated as cold brew, but air-whipped creaminess smooths out the ride.
A quenelle of white ice cream, the sweetest thing here, floating in a honey-sweetened pool, with a little vanilla pancake to set off the softness and soak up the syrup.
A kiwi sponge cake, wonderfully salty and light. In the midst of all this sweetness, the salt is truly refreshing. It does not hold back in the least. A relief, especially after that saltless tease of a brioche. The kiwi is cut oblong—how did they do that? Do kiwis even come in that shape? Do they train the kiwis with little kiwi molds at the farm, slowly squeezing them until they are exactly the ellipse necessary for this particular cut? Even if not, it is by far the best of the lot, maybe even the best of the evening.
The ghosts are on maximum alert as the meal approaches its conclusion. Dishes disappear immediately upon completion of each dessert. And with the big stuff knocked back, it’s on to the accessories.
The truffles have humongous roasted macademia nuts inside. When bitten, they explode, shattering into smoky shards. They are boastful, rambunctious, and welcome. Meanwhile, the wine caramels are oversweet but a little toasty, tinted by the fruit of the wine without getting too syrupy. Like all caramels, they cling to the teeth, but you can't fault them for their overeager attitude. It's their nature.
All that and a few too many donut holes and we're done. Not just done, but satisfied. I feel no strain on my belt yet I can’t eat one thing more, a state of sensory satiation as well as fullness. The show is over. We ask to go backstage.
DEPARTURE
Our ghosts escort us to the kitchen, where we meet the maitre’d. He is confident and full of grace, but his face holds the practiced pained expression of a man who serves powerful people. I can feel it: he knows his neck is on the line. His tenure and expertise guarantee nothing. At any moment, the whim of a VIP could turn a flawless evening into a disaster. His is a balancing act of authority and deference, laden with power and vulnerability. I sympathize. I’m not quite sure how powerful I’m supposed to feel here either. He and I are both a little uncomfortable with our positions, and maybe that keeps us sharp. Maybe my fellow diners’ apparent dullness is a weariness with their own position, unchallenged and unconcerned. Maybe they’d like a little edge. But that’s not what the French Laundry offers—at least, not to the guests.
The maitre’d guides us through the kitchen on our way out. It is a technological wonder, utterly spotless, all white and steel and copper. The left side is a full 15 degrees warmer than the cool side, possible only through induction cooking, and the ingredients in the center island diverge left or right according to need. A battery of cooks shuttle from the center to the wings to mince, plate, pour, and stack. On the hot side, two cooks attend to a sauce, swirling and sniffing.
Where the service ghosts and maitre’d are all smiles, the chefs are staring death in the eye. Their faces are masks of pure focus. They are completely fixated, lost in their work, deep into tonight’s service but with miles to go before they rest.
It is here that it really sinks in that the menu changes every day. This is not a painstaking masterpiece, endlessly tweaked in pursuit of a single perfect expression, refined and repeated every night for a fresh set of supplicants. No, this is long-form improv, a collaborative marathon. Each day, the weather, the harvest, the mood, the many rhythms of life all combine to inform an idea for tomorrow, and by the end of the night that idea is clarified and prepped, drawing on a vast repertoire of dishes and ingredients to create something fresh and new.
It is the clear mission of the French Laundry to facilitate conversation. French Laundry is the guest who shows up at the party on time and with a great bottle of wine, who reintroduces old acquaintances, who knows how to make you look good and feel great. French Laundry is the host with the perfect house, the well-stocked larder, the blanket ready for when you feel cold.
French Laundry is your rich friend, well-heeled and warm, whose displays of generosity may remind you of the limits of your checkbook, but never make you feel poor.
I never see the bill. Most of it was paid in advance, and the remainder—mostly our parade of wines—is discreetly covered by Edmund. I feel both touched and uncertain about this generosity. The ghosts’ final act is to retrieve my hat, then I leave their domain to explore the empty garden with my friends.
Through huge windows we ogle the above ground wine cellar, watch the bustling cooks, smile at a happy family celebrating in a private room. It’s more relaxing on this side of the glass. The tightrope act is concluded. I hug my friends. We exhale the tension of our shared performance, once again our ordinary selves. We did well: tonight was special.
I unbuckle my best belt and slide into my car to drive home alone. All I can think of now is my bed. Only there will my cheap and rumpled sheets, whites worn soft, offer an embrace no stranger can perform. Only there will I enjoy the highest aspiration of every host, the spark that inspires every service: a welcome home in which to dream.
