A meal at a three-star Michelin restaurant is by definition, indulgent. But real indulgence requires training your senses and bringing context for the experience to come.
Without mental preparation and a keen eye, nuances of the breadth and depth of the sensory overload may pass unnoticed. Every element, from the serving pieces to napkins to hot towels used for wiping your hands prior to dessert, is designed to seduce diners — for a price. That's why the fixed price lunch is your friend. It's the gateway drug to fine-dining extravagance at a discount.
It also occurs to me that there's a sweet irony in that sinners in the early Catholic Church were granted "indulgences" (from the Latin verb indulgere, meaning to forgive) — often by making donations. And so, with great anticipation, I sail into the swirling winds of this conundrum and enter the fanciful world of Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, an Art Deco marvel in London's Mayfair.
Meals of this caliber always start with some kind of delectable munchie designed to make the table salivate. My server, Dimitri, is a French native from just outside Paris despite his Russian name. He cuts a dapper figure in a gray designer suit; his waist is about the size of my thigh. He delivers a white ceramic cabbage leaf loaded with warm Emmentaler gougère — bite-size cheese puffs mounded up to the point that they look like a pyramid. They are completely addictive and so delicious I lose count of how many I pop into my mouth. My justification on this road to gluttony is that I skipped the breakfast at my B&B.
The French sommelier, Carla, confesses she's from an island off the coast of Brittany despite her Italian name. Her French accent, however, is very compelling, and she's totally winning as she wheels over the Champagne cart. "Monsieur Clar-EEEdge, would you prefer white or rosè?" True confession, pink Champagne is my weakness. Before I have a chance to argue with myself, I've made the appropriately indulgent selection of 2006 Dom Perignon Rosè — blowing any semblance of a budget. I rationalize the choice by convincing myself that I didn't come 4,000 miles to economize. I could be perfectly happy if the meal ended now.
Dimitri has other ideas. He produces a modern white enamel tray with rounded edges that embrace a most beautiful bread display stocked with picture-perfect rolls. Crisp mini baguettes with pointed ends and bacon fougasse, a cousin to focaccia with holes like a pretzel to increase the crust-to-crumb ratio. Later, he insists I try the brioche made with pork fat rather than butter; it's a revelation — soft and flavor-packed. Gilding these lilies is a rich and creamy butter from Normandy laced with fleur de sel de Guérande. Presented on a small square wooden block, it looks like a giant Hershey's Kiss glistening in what Van Gogh calls "the highest yellow."
There's also a small shiny silver bowl with an angled top filled with Fontainebleau — an airy amalgam of fromage blanc and whipped cream. It's a nice variation, but the amazing butter rules.
Dimitri watches my every move, carefully orchestrating the relaxed pace of what will end up as a four-hour affair. He's back and places before me a giant pearlescent egg that looks like it came with Jack down the beanstalk. And with a flick of his wrist he whisks away the top to reveal the bottom half, filled with tiny, diced caramelized onions and succulent chicken bits. It's garnished with a few small Parmesan tuiles and some microgreens. Then, he magically produces a small white beaker loaded with the most fragrant clear onion consommé, pouring it over the garnishes. It's delicate, multi-dimensional and almost religiously transporting.
I'm swooning and I haven't even had the first course of my three-part, prix-fixe lunch. Two glasses of wine are included, and after a chat with Carla, I skip the whites and head directly to a 2014 B. Bachelet pinot noir from Maranges in Burgundy. As one would expect from a three-star Michelin establishment, the wine is served in delicate, big-bowled crystal stemware in order to swirl and appreciate the complex aromas. Its smoky, earthy flavors match well with the stunning mallard duck pâté en croûte dotted with foie gras. Rich duck jus poured tableside from another tiny pitcher joins a cornucopia of pickled condiments to complete the scrumptious plate.
Not only do the pickled veggies flawlessly balance the fatty richness of the terrine, but they are a beautiful still life. Turned carrots, fennel, parsnips, and a dark cherry form a colorful array dotted with a variety of diminutive leaves. This feeds your eyes, your tongue and your soul.
Course No. 2 (or is it four?) is a wonderful, umami-rich pave of braised ox cheeks. The rectangular slice is topped with a golden buttery parsnip crust. It's served with parsnips three ways — a creamy purée that covers the surprise of a tender-thin slice finished with a swirled nest of grated, crisp brown shreds. There's also a dark condiment made with mustard from Meaux, topped with large buttery bread crumbs and several small, thin rings of piquant pickled red pearl onions. This being French cuisine, there's a de rigueur, glistening, rich beefy (ox-y) sauce, too. It's sublime, especially with a luscious glass of 2013 P. Frères Crozes-Hermitage, a syrah from the Rhône Valley.
All that's left is dessert. But, wait, here comes Dimitri wheeling an enormous blue-veined Stilton under a glass dome with feelers like a giant snail. Next to it is a mortar (sans pestle) full of what looks like ribbons of red wine-poached pears. He knows a mark when he sees one — the con is on. With a wink and a smile, he volunteers that the "optional" cheese plate is either a hunka-hunka gorgeous blue or a plate of four French cheeses with appropriate accoutrements. I opt for the latter. While I love Stilton, a quartet of French cheeses give me more to taste.
Now that I've made that decision, Carla moves in to offer some port. I demur, but she also has a sweet Stanton & Killeen muscat from Australia's Rutherglen. Any ability I have to resist falls away. The circle of cheeses arrives. It is stunning. Each of the selections has it's own accompanying accent. Chèvre comes with a quenelle of red pepper jelly topped with cracked black pepper. Camembert from Normandy has one with apple and Calvados studded with a tiny trio of fresh apple "pegs." The cantal sits next to a hazelnut-mushroom mousse. And Fourme d'Ambert blue is matched with those scrumptious poached pears from Stiltonland. A small mixed baby lettuce salad in the middle serves to cleanse the palate.
As I luxuriate in the cheesy afterglow, Dimitri arrives with a magical box, from which he plucks a hot towel with tongs for me to cleanse my hands for the ritual of dessert. My dinner napkin is whisked away and replaced with a new one embroidered with a charming persimmon. And then, like a street vendor displaying his wares, an array of dazzling sweet jewels appear before me. There's a silver tray with six artisanal chocolates dotted with sea salt, a small bowl of cocoa-coated almonds, another filled with perfect pastel macaroons, and, finally, cello-wrapped caramels and nougats.
They're trying to kill me, I think to myself. Then my real dessert arrives. This embarrassment of sugar-filled riches is just an intermezzo. Seeing my distress, Dimitri offers to box them up for the road. I accept, and he returns with the entire battalion of sweets peeking through a beautiful, shiny clear cellophane package sealed with a monogrammed sticker at the top — fit for bringing back across the pond to my loved ones.
I've chosen the chocolate dessert from the three prix-fixe offerings. It's a mix of light and dark ganache, fondant, and ice cream with dots of caramel. Like everything else, it is simply superb. Then, Dimitri reminds me that I've requested a kitchen tour, and the team is happy to oblige.
I'm whisked behind the curtain to meet chef de cuisine Jean-Philippe Blondet, who, in addition to being matinee idol handsome, orchestrates a brigade of chefs some 27 strong. The quartet at the pastry station is all smiles as they prepare for evening service. The savory side of the kitchen resembles a shiny stainless-steel workshop; it's pristine and hard to imagine that my incredible lunch service can possibly have exited such a sparkling workspace, without a saucepan or spoon out of place.
Such is the magic of a well-schooled brigade of young French chefs. I am nearly delirious with joy after such a blissful meal. Ducasse's crew is at the top of their game — which, of course, is what one expects from a gastronomic temple that maintains Michelin excellence. I always approach these experiences with great expectations.
And I waddle out into London's brisk fall air floating on a cloud.
Editor's note: Postcards is an ongoing series in which CL's food critic shares his culinary adventures outside Tampa Bay.
This article appears in Dec 21-28, 2017.