This post is the fourth in a series. (Please read the posts here, here, and here first, if you haven’t yet!)

I once spent over $750 on a single meal. It was the most expensive meal I’ll ever have in my life.

Andrés, my boyfriend at the time, was obsessed with luxury food experiences. Not only did he enjoy preparing specialty dishes for friends, he maintained a wealth of information with regard to the world’s best restaurants. His Facebook wall primarily displayed photos from his endless edible escapades. He spent hours watching Chef’s Table invested in an online lecture series by the one and only Thomas Keller, through which he learned how to make the perfect homemade Italian egg pasta. (I wasn’t mad about it.)

Thomas Keller and The French Laundry

Thomas Keller, for those who don’t know (like me pre-2019), is a renowned chef and restaurateur. He also happens to be the only American awarded simultaneous three-star Michelin ratings at two different restaurants, including one in the Napa Valley: The French Laundry. He holds seven Michelin stars total. In short, when it comes to the world of food, Keller is arguably the best of the best, at least in the US.

Andrés had a fan crush.

Since we began dating, I had watched him stare longingly at the reservation website for The French Laundry, adjusting party sizes and dates in various combinations across many months to find any available seating, with no luck. But then, at last, he caught one table’s cancellation and quickly claimed the 6-person reservation for a date a few weeks out.

There was great deliberation over the group make-up, but Andrés decided to extend the invitation to his two sisters and their partners and me. The day of the event happened to be close to his birthday. Of course, it would have been reasonable (and, really, responsible) of me to pass up the opportunity. Andrés would have understood. After all, it was close to $300 per person just for the reservation—just to walk in the doors of that fancy restaurant. However, my interest was piqued, the vegetarian tasting menu called my name, and I wanted to show the world (read: Andrés’ sisters) that I was a good, supportive girlfriend.

The Night of the Meal

We dressed up in suits and ties and dresses and heels and headed to Yountville, California. The restaurant itself was small and unassuming, with carpeted floors and low ceilings. We were led to our table and I felt the familiar burn of insecurity as I attempted to scoot my own chair in and quickly remembered that etiquette would not allow for such a thing.

My favorite moment of the entire evening came when Andrés’ brother-in-law thoughtfully perused the extensive beverage list, with wines by the glass priced up to $82 (a glass!), and then returned his attention to the others and remarked, “I wonder if they have Dos Equis.” A loud laugh escaped me, and I felt immediate shame as heads turned in my direction. I ordered a modest $23 glass of wine, and then another, to ease the distinct feeling that I did not belong at this establishment.

Courses began to arrive. Each was a tiny work of art, almost too beautiful to eat, but also too delicious not to. I tasted a brokaw avocado and sour apple “parfait,” a toasted quinoa “amandine” and a winter cabbage stew, a “crepe gateau” and a vegetarian spin on “roasted bone marrow.” When I had the opportunity to make a choice for a course, between a soft boiled bantam “hen egg” and the hand-cut “tagliatelle” with black truffles, I elected the pasta; who wouldn’t? It wasn’t until five minutes later that Andrés drew my attention to the finely printed words on the menu elucidating the $125.00 “supplement” for my choice. Fuck, I thought. The pasta was placed delicately in front of me, a tiny pile buried under freshly shaved aromatic truffle. It was, without question, delicious. My stomach, full of buttery noodles, churned slightly at the price tag.

The Invoice

After endless dessert trays with ice cream and mousse, profiteroles and truffles, eclairs and palmiers, we sat back in our chairs. The French Laundry was more experience than meal, with an invoice to prove it. I peeked at the check for the evening when it arrived; we had done close to $3,000 in damage. My mind swirled in green bills, and it occurred to me that I had paid the initial $300 months earlier.

“Was that included in this check?” I whispered cautiously to Andrés. He shook his head.

“So are you guys buying? For my birthday?” he tested.

I laughed loudly a second time. “No. My presence here was my gift to you,” I replied.

And that is how I spent close to one grand on one meal.

It was spectacular, but I also would have been happy with Taco Bell, much to Andrés’ dismay. (We weren’t meant for each other.) I could have bought more than a few Cheesy Gordita Crunches for the cost of my French Laundry adventure.