Chris Walker Vs. Disappointment At Thomas Keller’s Bouchon, And A Brief Rumination On West Coast Cocktail Culture

Photo: Domino Digital Studio

“When you have a moment, I’ll take a Vesper.”
The waiter looked at me, confused. “A what?”
“A Vesper.” Still no recognition. “The cocktail?”
“Oh! You’ll have to show me; I’m not very good with the cocktails.”
I cracked opened the drink menu and pointed at the Vesper.
“Yes sir; right away.”

Seven or so minutes had passed when the waiter returned, dropping off a chilled cocktail glass. Peculiarly, I eyed its contents. My “Vesper” had been garnished with a cherry and bits of lemon were floating on the surface of the alcohol. Considering the Vesper contains no lemon juice and is garnished with a lemon peel, I was suspicious. I took a sip. It was not a Vesper. How could this be, I wondered? I was at Bouchon, a Thomas Keller restaurant, a focal point of culinary superiority, surely they wouldn’t make a cocktail as classic as the Vesper incorrectly, would they? I questioned myself; had I had the recipe wrong all along? I took another sip. Luxardo. That’s what I was tasting, Luxardo: a maraschino flavored liqueur.

When the waiter returned I politely told him that the bar had made me the wrong drink. He apologized but then informed me that some things at Bouchon are made a little differently than what people are used to. I told him that was understandable but, in this case, it wasn’t so. For starters, a Vesper is garnished with a lemon peel, not a cherry; it was the wrong drink. Reluctantly, he picked up the glass and said he’d have the right one made.

After another five or six minutes, the waiter returned with what appeared to be the exact same drink — bits of lemon and all — only this time it was garnished with a lemon peel instead of a cherry. I tried it. Again, Luxardo. All I wanted was a Vesper, damn it. A Vesper is a clean and simple cocktail: three ounces of gin, one ounce of vodka, half an ounce of Lillet Blanc, shaken, and served with a lemon peel. I checked the Bouchon drink menu again just to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind. Lo and behold, that was exactly how it was described.

Another sip and I was certain I had an Aviation, a drink composed of lemon juice, gin, maraschino liqueur (like Luxardo), and Creme de Violette. Not a bad cocktail… but not what I wanted. The waiter was nowhere to be found. He hadn’t even been by to see if I was satisfied with the second attempt. For a moment, I decided I’d just shut up and drink the Aviation but I was at Bouchon, where they hold themselves to a higher standard in all aspects of the dining experience, where they also charge $14 for a drink. I took the drink up to the bar.

“All right guys,” I said, approaching the two bartenders. “I need a Vesper, I’ve tried to get one twice now and –”
“Yeah, that’s a Vesper,” said Bartender Number One.
“No, it’s not. You’re using Luxardo, right?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s no Luxardo in a Vesper. A Vesper is three ounces gin, one ounce vodka, and –.”
“Lillet Blanc,” snapped Bartender Number Two. Bartender One and Two started flipping through a stack of drink recipes that were stapled together. Bartender Number One looked up at me.
“You know what, I’ve been making the wrong drink.”

At last, I had my drink; it only took around thirty minutes. I had forgiven and nearly forgotten about the Vesper mishap until the end of the meal when our waiter arrived with the bill. Setting it down, he apologized again about the drink situation but then, for the second time, proceeded to explain that some things at Bouchon are made differently than customers are used to. Essentially, what he was implying was that I was wrong; I was, perhaps, too unsophisticated to ‘get’ what they were doing at Bouchon, unwilling to appreciate their culinary ingenuity. This was coming from a guy who, until I pointed at the word “Vesper” on a menu, didn’t even know what a Vesper was.

As the waiter walked away I opened the bill. I had still been charged for the Vesper. This bothered me. I’m not looking for handouts but after two failed attempts, after having to go to the bar myself, after being insulted, no gesture was made to compensate for my inconvenience? It was a slap in the face. All of the delicious food we’d eaten — the pork belly, the chicken and waffles, the pomme frites, the omlette with sausage and tomato confit — was instantly overshadowed. It’s been said that good service can make up for bad food but good food can never make up for bad service; that statement is unequivocally true. For the second time, we left the Las Vegas Bouchon dissatisfied (the first time was, surprise, also because of poor service).

I don’t know, maybe reading too many Michael Ruhlman books has given me unrealistic expectations of what a Keller restaurant should be like. I know Keller isn’t in the kitchen of his Las Vegas Bouchon but I’d like to think his insanely high standards are still being upheld. Obviously, they are not.

The next night, I found myself in the bar of a restaurant called B&B where I ordered a Negroni. I watched the bartender build what appeared to a Negroni (gin, Campari, sweet vermouth) until she reached for a bottle of Crown Royal. Realizing it wasn’t my drink, I turned back to my conversation. The bartender put the drink in front of me.
“This is mine?” I asked, eyeing the ice-filled highball, garnished with a wedge of blood orange.
“Yeah, you ordered a Negroni.”
“You put Crown in this.”
“Yeah, I just figured you wanted our specialty Negroni.” There was no specialty list in sight; I’d been given no cocktail menu. “I can make you a traditional one if you want.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” I replied. “I like Crown; I’ll give it a shot.”

While it wasn’t a Negroni, the blood orange, Crown laced cocktail the bartender made me was good. I wouldn’t order it again (not that I had in the first place) but it was nice while it lasted, and I did get to sample a few Amari (Italian herb liqueurs) on the house so no harm, no foul. That being said, the experience coupled with the Bouchon incident made me wonder, are Vegas bartenders just making it up as they go along, or was Toby Maloney, head bartender at Chicago’s Violet Hour, completely right when he said, “The East Coast is rooted in tradition … where the West Coast is more experimental”? East Coast, West Coast, personally, I’d like to think that at any decent bar I wander into, when I order a Vesper or a Negroni or a Manhattan I’ll get just that. And if I want it made differently I should have to specify, not the other way around.

At least it’s good to know that a gin martini is still exactly that.

RECOMMENDED READING:

The cocktail divide: West Coast and East Coast cocktail cultures couldn’t be more different – right? by Gary Regan.

Posted: February 6th, 2009 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Alcohol, Food | 8 Comments »