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This is part two of the story of the most expensive meal I’ve ever eaten. Read The French Laundry, part 1: arrival.

The kitchen staff prepares a dozen different mini-appetizers every night, and brings two or three to each diner, to tease palates and set expectations for the evening. Our first amuse-bouche was a Gruyère puff pastry, which was delicious (even if I’d initially expected more Gruyère and less puff). Seemingly simple breads can be incredibly difficult to execute well, but this one was perfect: light, flaky, airy, with a distinct taste of the Swiss cheese for which it was named.

Soon a second waiter came to collect us. He led us upstairs in a smallish dining room of about six tables. The most striking thing about the space was something we didn’t notice consciously until a few minutes later: there was no muzak, no piped-in pap. As a result, everyone in the room spoke very quietly, aware of the lack of cover noise. It was an unusual atmosphere. I think I’d have preferred some sort of music, because in fact the lack of ambient sound does lend itself to eavesdropping. Here’s what we heard: everyone was talking about the food.

Our head waiter was the best I have ever experienced. He was attentive, intelligent, patient, all the things one would hope for. In fact, everyone at the restaurant except for the woman at the front door provided impeccable, professional, best-of-class service. It is fortunate that this is the case, for reasons summarized on the menu: “An 18% service charge is added to each check.”

We inquired about flexibility within the menus. For example, could we select a second fish course rather than meat? Our waiter assured us that substitutions were no problem; he made us feel that we were in charge of the show, and he existed solely to please us. That’s a refreshing feeling, and it helps justify the cost. He even went one better: “If you’d like, the Chef [yes, he pronounced the capital] could prepare a special fish course for the two of you.” Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought — if Thomas Keller wants to cook me a special entree, who am I to argue?

I also opted out of the cheese course. The waiter offered to prepare a green salad instead, and I eagerly accepted. You probably think I’m crazy to skip 1/5 of my opportunities to eat the most amazing food in the state, but I already knew I’d really appreciate something plain and healthy to go with the four courses of over-the-top rich indulgence. Also, I wanted to see what the French Laundry would do with a simple green salad, which, unlike everything else I’d be eating that night, was something I’d be likely to make for myself.

Another waiter appeared, bearing our second amuse. This one looked like a tiny ice cream cone. Its small size belied the monstrous taste explosion contained within. The cone was a sesame pastry, filled with crème fraîche and red onion, topped with a round scoop of salmon tartare. For two bites I was in gustatory heaven. It was shockingly good. My jaw would have dropped open had I been willing to risk losing even a crumb.

By now I’d surmounted all but a few remaining dregs of the ill feelings built up in the foyer downstairs. At any given moment, only about 70 people on the planet can say “I’m eating dinner at the French Laundry,” and as one of those people I was feeling pretty good. We were part of the fortunate few, attended to by a team of experts, fed by one of the best-ranked kitchens in the country, with more food on its way. The only thing that would have made be feel better, I thought, would be to learn that the GQ trust-fund dude from the bar, who had epitomized the idea that I was insufficiently endowed with money, fine clothes, leisure time, and sailing vessels to consider eating at the French Laundry, was in fact, a server at this very restaurant. Imagine my surprise when that person, fashionable socks and coiffure and all, delivered a bottle of wine to the next table. Heh. Life was good again. Maybe I’d even spill a little something for him on our tablecloth.

The third amuse, an egg custard, was an object lesson in finicky presentation. The flavor was good, if you happen to like combinations of ova, which we don’t particularly, but it deserves mention because of the attention paid to packaging: bird eggs had been carefully topped, drained, cleaned, filled with custard, baked, dressed with caviar, then placed into silver egg holders for serving. Fancy presentation is, of course, a hallmark of fine dining, and for the most part, the French Laundry’s presentations are stunning. In some cases, they are interactive as well.

Read the french laundry, part 3: climax