Napa – Dinner Night 2: A Dud at Bouchon

Bouchon

Pay attention to how light it is outside, the following shots were taken at the same time in the cave-like interior.

The well appointed Seafood Bar at Bouchon

Dinner on night two saw us arrive at Bouchon, the classic Parisian-esque bistro headed up by Chef Thomas Keller of The French Laundry.  Situated in “downtown” Yountville, the place strives to serve up “traditional French bistro cuisine in a dining room offering wonderful Parisian ambiance.”  (per their website).  There is no hyperbole in the statement that the Francophile in me thinks thought this is was the best damn restaurant in the valley and I’ve been to Bouchon a dozen times in as many visits to Napa Valley.

However, after a dozen year romantic, nostalgic-for-a-period-I’ve-never-known love affair with the rouge awned beauty at 6534 Washington Street, I can say with firm conviction, it will be a cold day in hell before I darken their door with the intention of spending my own money there, which is a shame because the entrée I ordered was the single best entrée I had all trip. (n.b. – if you want to buy my dinner there I’ll gladly tag along).

I have no clue what is going on at Bouchon, but how has this institution that has so embodied the principle of the bistro fallen down so hard on the job?  I don’t know if somebody in the kitchen is trying to have a biggest (censored) contest with their “big brother” restaurant down the street, I don’t know if the ills of a service staff in a recession economy has caught up, but the experience of this night was at best confusing, frustrating and disappointing.

Everyone can have a off night, Lord only knows my own businesses are far from perfect, but the events of this night seemed deeper, seemed more permanent.  Little things, like the rushed wine service and the server telling us “It would be better for me if I had your order along with the wine before you ask the sommelier a question.”  Huh?  What?  A microcosm of the frustration of the evening was our water service.  We ordered two bottles (one still, one sparkling) and as the night went on we were served water by as many as five people and we had any combination of sparkling, still or Napa tap (though we were charged the requisite bottles and then some on the bill).  We stopped short of placing odds on who was going to get what water – and if it was going to be the right water.  Perhaps they kept giving us all this water to wash the dirty dishes that never seemed to leave our table.

The best shot I could get of my pre-dinner Battonet, though it was light outside.

I’m surprised we had any dishes at all, since were barely able to order a THING it was so dark inside, even though the sun was still shining outside.  Maybe Bouchon was really trying to channel the Belle Époque with the seeming absence of ANY electric light whatsoever, short of the candle light on the table (see above picture, this was the most light we had all night), but with a series of points and grunts we were able to make an order.  The grunts, of course, coming from the jammed in table to either side of us.  Rams fighting a mating ritual in Bandung don’t go at it as hard as did I with the Japanese tourist who’s chair abutted up to mine.  There are places in the French Quarter that charge $20 a song for the kind of intimacy afforded us in the dining room at Bouchon.

Once we did get some food on the table, well the best thing I can say is . . .yawn.  One DC had the sweetbreads appetizer and being a well traveled, worldly diner in her own right abandoned the dish after just two bites.  My French Onion soup was shoved to the side after I fought through the dense, flavorless cheese on top of the virtually impenetrable crouton only to find something below that more resembled Prince William’s Sound on 24 March 1989 (yes, I had to Google that) than it did an onion broth.

The saving grace: Roasted Chicken (if you can make it out)

Now, it should be said here that my entrée – the roasted chicken with peas and jus – was a study in the balance of perfection and was the single most satisfying entrée I had on the entire trip.  Moreoever, it was at once every single great memory I’ve ever had of Bouchon – bistro perfection.  However, it stopped there and the myriad, muddled, baseless lamb dishes of my DC’s (and Mrs. Bloggle) bore no resemblance to anything either French, or bistro, or balance, or appropriate.  One entrée looked like it belonged on the beginning of The Flintstones more than it did a bistro table and sent me into a food coma from bite one.  A total mess, all of it.

Other inconsistencies persisted: the restaurant is in the heart of Napa Valley but the only genuinely appropriate part of their wine list is French, our $48 Foie Gras pate in jar that we ate 1/6 of and asked to have boxed up failed to re-appear at the table and when I went back later to retrieve it I was told it had been discarded, but I was welcomed to buy another one.  It goes on, but I’m beginning to even bore myself.

Maybe this place was just having a bad night, or maybe it is symptomatic of a place that has become a tourist destination, filled with diners who can practically reach out and touch The French Laundry, but are yet still a million miles away from a reservation at Chef Keller’s flagship, and likewise the service and management has looked beyond the need to perform ably and consistently because – hey – they’re coming in anyway.

Either way, my table of four with almost two courses each went 1-4-2 on the win-loss-tie scale that night, add affected service befitting a TGIFridays and a nearly $500 price tag . . .well, you get the picture.  This is a sad thing, because I really used to dig this place.  I hear though, the Coq au Vin next door at Bistro Jeanty is as good as ever, I’ll be checking that out next time I’m in town.

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