One thing I observed about the dining habits of the hungry lizards at the recently concluded F1 Grand Prix here (folks sauntering up to the race side tracks waiting for the chance to catch Hamilton whizzing by like a hyper loud and fast mosquito -it’s exciting, but I’m no seasoned F1fan) – food to them must be as fast as the McLaren-Mercedes he zips by in. Almost every hard core fan was just falling over beer, fried this and that, roast chickens, hotdogs, hamburgers and …beer. Their only fear… no beer! Even if they can afford the three Michelin star Thomas Keller’s stunning four hour set makan orgies at his French Laundry or his Per Se food temple in Napa Valley and New York, they’ll rather you spare them the caviar and fry them the chicken. I enjoy both but I’m no flying lizard (who’ll travel the world for F1 thrills) for fried chickens.

The legendary Per Se ktichen

When I was recently plonked with the opportunity to pamper myself with that once a lifetime (at least) meal ritual at his Per Se Restaurant in New York, I jumped right in. This is usually a two-months-book-ahead eatery but this time we got in with just a two weeks notice- thanks, I think, to the clueless bosses at Lehman Brothers, who had no idea that their company was heading under. Belts were tightening and fancy downtown New York tables were like a Tuas food court situation at lunch on Sundays. But Per Se’s U$275++ (per mouth) meal ticket price was recession proof. The ten stunning course on offer, laced with lots of French, Italian and Spanish terms, might as well sound like Massa, Raikkonnen, Coulthard or Bourdais. Every dish was anticipated, came as expected, was small, well decorated and left you speechless. And being a minor foodie from Makansutra, apparently, has its privileges – our ten-course ballooned into a fifteen plate feeding frenzy over four and a half hours – a big thank you to our makan pals Mike Hale of the New York Times and his Singaporean wife Cheryl, who announced us ahead.

Foie gras terrine with oregon huckleberries

The whole shindig starts at the door, two stately blue wooden doors, similar to the European cottage house doors at their sister eatery, the French Laundry, confronts you. Their servers are impeccably trained and they accord you the kind of service way slicker than the “formal” dress code status they ask you to be in when dining there. They knew when you were conducting small talk, joking about Vice President nominee Sarah Palin’s political lipstick joke “haha, it does look good on our pit bull.”, or just wondering if service charges were included in the bill. They knew just when to move in and slide into your conversation and casually suggest you consider the choice of first course, duck foie gras with Oregon Huckleberries, which can feel rich with the lamb later, or the bluefoot mushrooms, done light with bok choy and radish. They then began with the first surprise- a cold chickpea soup sprinkled with mint and Meyer lemon, a Mediterranean splash yet not quite, especially when it came decadently presented on a triple platter set and was poured off a little bone china jug, one bowl at a time. The lemon touch- splendid! Palates was awoken and ready for surprise two- Greek oysters with Sturgeon caviar and tapioca pearls before they sneaked in a mouthful of sashimi. I thought the dinner would begin proper by now but they further snowed us in with their all time off menu signature calssic- truffle oil infused egg custard with Black Winter Truffles, served in halved egg shell.

After we’ve had our fill or foie gras and bluefoot mushrooms- they lowered gear for a sharp turn with scalloped Minestrone- best I’ve ever had, with each vegetable standing out proudly on its own against the fresh shellfish. Phew! Then the straight dash- spinach Rigatini with Burgundy truffles, shown and presented to you in a red velvet box and shaved on the spot onto the pasta (can die lah!), the stunning fresh medium rare lamb with eggplant and a super crispy skin pan fried ( I don’t know they do it) salmon with mustard emulsion. Then they upped the tempo with a 320 calorie per second veal brain tempura with something I was too shocked and high to remember. Then Andrew, their captian, so efficient they named him the “Expeditor”, regaled about how a pair of ex-Wall Street (before the crash) twins, gave up the white collar rut and decided to make just ricotta cheese, in Brooklyn, the kind they are then going to serve up with squash, olives and Arugula salad.

By now, I lost count of the courses and the calories. I vaguely remembered being taken on a privileged tour behind the reknowned Thomas Keller kitchen where a live TV screen of their peers at work in Napa Valley hangs over the pristinely designed workspace. When we were done, or so I thought, they settled us down at the lounge with coffee and 27 types of chocolate pralines with a comforting “you can eat as many as you like.” chorus. It was meal worth every penny.