No. 3 "Lunch at 43,000 Feet"

So right after we took off from San Francisco, it was time for lunch.  The lunch in the La Premiere cabin of the Air France A380 is five courses.  I first started with some canapes: grilled pineapple and salmon with caviar; a date with goat cheese - or chèvre - and dried chorizo; and some sort of eggplant wrap with hummus inside.  

After assessing this, the first thing that comes to my mind is, “oh no!  I’m in France!” And we hadn’t even landed.

I say that with some alarm because the French, for all their creativity, sometimes get too creative.  When, if ever, do salmon and pineapple go together? Or a date, goat cheese and dried chorizo? The last time I was in France, we had several meals where the chef had practically gone conceptual, like what you’d see in a modern art museum.  Would you want to eat something by Jackson Pollock? Or Robert Raushenberg? The food was interesting to look at, and a nice to thing to consider, but it doesn’t taste good.

That is how I felt about these canapes.  I pushed them aside, sipped my Krug and perused the menu.

As is de rigeur in the upper classes, they provide a menu and actual choices for what you get to eat.  In La Premiere, after the appetizers, there was the parsnip soup, which the menu says has “bresaola julienne.”  Once again, “oh no! I’m in France!” What in the heck is breseaola? And why is it julienned? I would google it but the Air France A380 doesn’t have wifi.  Another sip of Krug is taken.

Choices of entrees include:

“Prime Cut” filet of beef with pepper sauce.  Pomme Dauphine potato puffs, pan fried mushrooms and braised romaine.  

Calf sweetbread with truffle sauce, sautéed oyster mushrooms and spinach.

Scallops and shrimp with a ginger and sesame sauce and rice flavored with bamboo and bok choy.

Ravioli with white truffle, confit tomato and zucchini.

Can you imagine?  Somewhere in the galley, they have four different entrees prepared for the nine La Premiere passengers.  

I chose the filet, mainly because I thought it would be a safe bet and sort of by process of elimination.  Calf sweetbreads? I don’t think a cow thymus is going to set well in a pressurized cabin. Ravioli? That’s been microwaved?  No thanks. Scallops and shrimp? Gives me a bad feeling.

After I ordered came the caviar service, of which there are few things more pleasurable.  She refilled my glass of Krug and set before me a small plate with a lemon wrapped in fine yellow cheese cloth, a dollop of creme fraiche, 2 blinis, a little mound of crushed hard boiled egg and a jar filled with an eighth of an ounce of caviar.

I don’t know what it is about the combination of caviar and champagne.  Caviar is Russian, champagne, French, but somehow the fruits of the vineyards around Rheims are made to pair with the eggs of a fish from the Caspian Sea.  They even served it with a little plastic caviar spoon, as caviar is not supposed to touch metal, because a stainless steel spoon would impart an undesirable metallic flavor.

Slathering the blinis with creme fraiche, plopping on top the caviar, sprinkling the hard boiled egg and squirting with lemon, it was consumed.  And washed down with champagne.

The next course was the parsnip soup, but as this is France, I had to choose the wine.  Something white, of course. And the list, which was printed separately from the menu, gave me several options.  Should I choose the rosé from Tavel? Or the chablis? At this point I was beginning to feel a bit sheepish about being in first class and getting all this attention and just pointed at one of them.  It was 2015 Louis Jadot Chardonnay “Les Combottes,” something, I see on Wine Searcher, now that I am home, is from Cote de Beane - Burgundy - and can be had for $26 per bottle.

The parsnip soup was beautiful, heavy in cream, which is necessary because parsnips don’t taste like much.  And the chardonnay was perfect with it. There was a small flower of oregano in the center. I’ve since googled bresaola: it’s a type of salted beef.  Unfortunately it was nowhere to be found with the soup.       

Next it was time to choose the wine that I would have with my entree.  There were two options, something from Cote-Rotie, a region I had heard of but knew nothing about, and something from St. Emilion, which I did.  St. Emilion is one of the most famous villages in Bordeaux, boasting among others, Cheval Blanc. I chose 2012 Château Canon. Nothing like something with a little bottle age when you’re at 43,000 feet.

She poured a tasted of the Chateau Canon for me to make sure it was good, as they do.  I didn’t bother really tasting it, as I would never have the audacity to make her go open another bottle.  Would they even have another bottle? I sipped, put the glass down and smiled.

And this is where something strange happened, that made me profoundly uncomfortable, but really puts a fine point on why we love and hate the French.  When she went to pour the full glass of wine, she missed the glass and spilled some on the white table cloth. I immediately told her not to worry about it,  I mean, for God’s sake, what is she going to do? Remove the salt and pepper shakers, the utensils, the three wine glasses and two plates and give me a new table cloth?

Well, that is exactly what she did, with such authority, grace and aplomb that you would think she had practiced doing just this thing in flight attendant school.  She then replaced the salt and pepper shakers, utensils, wine glasses and plates, disappeared again and brought out my filet. Now it was time to eat.

We love the French, because they wouldn’t deign to allow you to eat with an unsightly red wine stain on your white table cloth.  We love that they pay attention to even the smallest details, and take very seriously the aesthetic experience, especially at the table.  But what we don’t like is the fuss, how this utter devotion to what is correctly beautiful gets in the way of the actual enjoyment of that beauty.  Case in point, and a bit of a teaser: look for my column in a couple weeks about a waiter refusing to serve wasabi in a Paris sushi restaurant.

The filet was a perfectly cooked medallion of steak, only slightly warm, served with two spherical little potato puffs, a couple slices of lightly sauteed oyster mushrooms, a braised leek and a sauteed shallot. And with that, the attendant brought a warm pitcher full of a brown bordelaise sauce that she poured all over the plate.  The anticipation of eating this with the elixir of St. Emilion had me squirming.

I tried not to think about the other 500 or so passengers to my rear, sequestered behind a curtain, packed like sardines in chairs without leather armrests, and beverage options that were not seven years old.

There are few paradises like the filet and the mushroom, or the filet and the potato, or the filet and the wine from Bordeaux.  That is why a steakhouse is one of the most common types of American fine dining establishments. And this filet was perfectly cooked, soft, maybe a little dry, but at 43,000 feet, the sheer decadence of this meal was like a bubble bath where the bubbles come from bottles of champagne.  I savored every bite.

Next week: A Cheese Course at 43,000 Feet

No. 2 "Champange at 43,000 Feet"

It began with the red carpet.  Certainly you’ve seen them when you are checking in.  The special line for First Class. When we got to the Air France counter, a lovely young, nearly tiny, Asian woman was there.  When I approached her, she asked my name. I told it to her, despite my not being the one who planned this whole thing, but she looked at her phone, found me and said, “welcome Mr. Martin.”

Passports and luggage were presented.  When the luggage was taken, I noticed they put a dark red flag on the white label on the baggage tags, then affixed yellow flags to the handles of my suitcase that said, “priority.” This, I think, was because they wanted mine to come out first.

I was given my boarding pass in a beautiful red cardboard folder, ensuring that I wouldn’t lose it like I had almost done a hundred times before when it was dispensed by an Orwellian machine anytime I fly United, steerage class.

Jen was her name, the petite asiatesse.  She then told me to follow her. I did so to the security screening.   It was a morass of people, like it always is, but I followed Jen into the priority lane, which most first class passengers have access to.  When I showed our my passport and boarding pass to the TSA agent, she told me to wait there and she disappeared. I waited two shakes, she reappeared, and we followed her as she proceeded to unhook the stanchion ribbons and literally bypass the entire line.  

Have you ever wanted to do that?  When you see the trail of bedraggled travelers, curling back on itself through the terminal?  How satisfying would it be to simply unhook one of those ribbons, and cut right in front of everyone?  How freeing that would be? Well you can do this. Or, you can have someone do it for you, which is even better.  It just costs money. A lot of money.

I still had to take off my shoes and belt and pull my ipad out of my bag, but this was much easier to do when I had been waiting all of three minutes to get to the scanner, rather than twenty.

She then lead me to the Virgin Atlantic Lounge.  I asked why not the Air France Lounge, like I did in 2016 the last time I got to do something like this.  She told me the Virgin Atlantic one is nicer for the first class passengers. I didn’t argue.

Jen told us simply to wait for her to come get me.  And I did.

The Virgin Atlantic Lounge was, as they say, what it was.  It was designed how they thought the future would look in 2005, with curvy wingback chairs, low plastic coffee tables and a wall of different sized TVs that had the landing page of the DVD of a British version of Peter Pan.  The movie wasn’t playing. I say British because it’s Virgin, a British company, and it didn't have Robin Williams in it.

I ordered an Orange Peel 21st Amendment lager that was pretty good.  21st Amendment is a local brewery in the SOMA district of San Francisco.  The rest of the menu had no prices for the alcohol or the food. A nice perk.  Though, given how much your tickets cost it makes sense that the drinks and food come gratis.  I ordered pork gyozas.

My pork gyozas came in a bamboo steamer with stainless steel chopsticks and a bowl of soy sauce that was so shallow I could only dip one one hundredth of an inch of the gyoza into it.  I ended up eating the gyoza with a fork. Still, it was better than being at a crowded bar in the main terminal.

Forty-five minutes later, Jen appeared and said it was time to board.  I gathered my things and followed her like she was the pied piper.  I felt a little juvenile as I’ve been navigating airports on my own for most of my adult life, until we got to the gate and saw yet another morass of people, huddled, helter skelter, all wondering if it was their time to get in line or not.

Jen simply kept walking, all the way to the front of the line, bypassing everyone.  I removed my boarding pass from the beautiful cardboard folder and gave it to her, it was scanned, and we were admitted to the jet way, in front of everyone else.  We were then directed to a side corridor that usually locked up held open by another attendant. This was the private jetway for the first class cabin.

The beauty of flying La Premiere is that you are shielded from the rest of the chaos of the airport.  Never do you have to fend for yourself. An attendant is always leading you where you need to go. There is even a separate jet way just so the La Premiere passengers don’t have to be in the same jetway as the hoi poloi.

It’s a Danish living room, the First Class Cabin of the Air France A380.  I am one of nine pods that recline electronically. They are all clad in light brown leather.  The cabin is so roomy that in front of each seat is a bench, so that other first class cabinmates can sit in front of you and mingle

A lovely attendant in a navy suit and red scarf tied around her neck offers me a glass of champagne.  Its Krug. If you don’t know anything about wine, this won’t matter much. But if you do, you will swoon.  Krug is the most luxurious champagne on the market. Its long graceful neck outfitted in gold foil has been impressing people for over 150 years.  It has a balanced, clean and crisp flavor that is nearly perfect, and very consistent. I accepted it with pleasure.

Then it was time to go.  When the A380 taxis, they turn on a camera on the vertical stabilizer of the airplane so that a view overlooking the fuselage and wingspan of the plane is broadcast for everyone to see.  You get a sense for how massive the plane is. There is a palpable air of excitement as we all are glued to the screen.

We taxi through the runways of SFO, making this turn and that, until we turn one final time and hit the wide expanse of the main runway.  The tarmac is scarred with tire marks from many landings before us. It is just as wide as the wingspan of the plane, and completely unobstructed.  

There was a pause, and then the jet engines fire.  They aren’t loud, as the plane is insulated against the noise, so it’s mainly a low hum.  And the plane begins to move. There is a little jostling, and I am careful not to spill the Krug from my champagne flute.  But the plane floated down the runway, like a Lincoln Town Car changing lanes on an interstate. Effortless.

This hills of Brisbane and San Mateo begin became a blur, and then the nose of the plane rose.  I was pulled back in my seat and the jostling of the runway gave way to a silent, smooth glide. The plane banked to the right and we ascended into the blue, cloudless Bay Area sky.  

Next stop, Paris.

No. 1 "Packing"

In less than 24 hours, I am going to embark on the journey of a lifetime.  It’s an all expenses paid trip to France.

I will fly first class “La Premiere” on Air France direct from San Francisco.  We’re booked at the Hotel de Crillon, one of Paris’ three great hotels - the other two being the Plaza Athénée and the Ritz.  

I’ll add nine Michelin stars to the 30 I already have, by dining at Alain Ducasse at the Plaza Athénée, Arpége Maison de Cuisine, and L'Ambroisie.

The trip culminates with VIP tickets to Versaille’s Grand Bal Masque or The Grand Masked Ball of Versaille.

How am I able to do this and who is paying for it?  That, I cannot tell you. I have been sworn to secrecy about the identity of my benefactor.  Nor can I say what any of this costs. Nor can I say who went with me. But I can tell you about the experience, what I ate and what I saw, how I felt and how that changed me.

The itinerary is as follows:  Five days in Paris at the Crillon.  Then three nights in Versailles for the Grand Ball.  Then back to Paris for another four nights. Then a weekend in Stockholm to visit my Swedish sister - more on that later.  And then back to France for a road trip to the Loire.

All in all, three weeks - the longest vacation I have ever taken.

So far, the best part of planning has been the costume.  You can’t get into the masked ball unless you look the part.  So, they commissioned a costume designer to make a custom 1700s era costume according to my size and specifications.  The costume designer was a rather eccentric woman who has worked for the SF Opera and other theater companies around the bay area, and she relished the challenge.

In August of 2018, she presented me with pictures of period costumes from roughly 1650 to 1800.  I got to choose the style of waistcoat and vest I wanted. It ended up being very recent, something from 1790 or so. 

Fabric is everything in a costume.  The fabric the designer chose was a drab brown gabardine.  That simply wouldn’t do because I was attending court at Versailles at the end of the reign of Louis XVI!  I needed to look fabulous. 

So, I went down to Discount Fabrics and found something befitting the court.  For my overcoat I chose a deep crimson spun silk. Then, for the waist coat, I chose a yellow silk which had red flowers running through it like a vine.  They complimented each other perfectly.

The designer agreed, and then suggested that we line the overcoat with the yellow fabric so that when you open it up, all you see is yellow silk and red flowers.  Then, she said she would buy extra yellow silk, and cut out the flowers to make the buttons on the overcoat. A shiver of excitement went down my spine.

The costume includes a shirt with poofy sleeves, even though you don’t see the sleeves with the jacket on.  Also there are knee length wool breeches with a button flap on the front - no zippers in the eighteenth century - and suspenders.  I’ll wear white knee high stockings and my black double monk strap shoes I got at Cole Haan two years ago, that apparently haven’t gone out of style since the French Revolution.

Authenticity has been key.  When I asked if the crotch of my breeches could be taken in, Barbara said she left it loose intentionally because they rode horses back then and needed the extra room to straddle the saddle.  And, when I noted that we aren’t even going to see the poofy sleeves on the shirt - couldn’t I get something that was cooler? I was overruled.

That was back in January.  The costume was completed two weeks ago and turned out perfectly.  When I tried it on, I realized I looked like a Revolutionary, not a member of court.  “How fitting,” I thought to myself as I regarded my reflection in the mirror, “that I am the guy partying at Versailles who knows the reign of Louis XVI is all going to end.  And not end well.”

It’s now June 13th, the night before I take off and I’m still packing.

What to wear?  How does one pack for Michelin Star dining in Paris, and boat rides in Stockholm?  Traipsing around chateaux in the Loire and long walks along the Seine? And the ballet?  Also, I plan to keep my running routine up. What more fun place to run than Paris?

Better get to it.  Car comes to pick me at a rather civilized 11AM tomorrow morning.  I can’t wait.