Walking into the lobby of the Hermitage Hotel, I am handed a glass of 2004 Dom Perignon. At about $120 per bottle it's the cheapest thing I'll drink all night.
I see some people I know, all of whom are surprised to see me in any tie, much less a black bow tie. But I have some affection for this tie, not in the least because I can knot it myself; I was married in it.
I asked my way into the Nashville Wine Auction's patron's dinner because I wanted to see what a $1,000 per plate meal, one of the most exclusive in the city, was like. The evening is part of a series of events the nonprofit Nashville Wine Auction puts on to raise funds for the fight against cancer.
Last year, the dinner was a tag team affair between chefs Tyler Brown and Sean Brock. This year, Ken Frank flew in from Napa to join Brown. Frank is the chef at La Toque and the current holder of a Michelin star, which, if you have to ask, means you are really, really good.
(Also, I should be up front. I don't have $1,000 for the dinner and neither does the Scene. I was there because of the auction's good graces, and to interview Paul Pontallier, but more on that later.)
The Dom is perfectly chilled, and when I put my nose into the glass, I get that slight hint of effervescence. Several years ago I developed an affinity for the Spanish sparkling wine called cava, in part because of my love for Spain and in part because I knew better than to get attached to the really good stuff. They used to call it Spanish champagne, but when Spain joined the European Union in the '80s, the French put an end to that. No, only grapes from the actual Champagne region can be called "Champagne" — and cava is not, no matter how much I love it.
Dom Perignon is light and dry. And perfect. And something you don't want to get used to, as it will spoil you when you have to return to the real world. Sips flow easily. A small army of staff is carrying around silver trays with canapes prepared by Brown: a fork of prosciutto, a spoon of perfect green tomato and crème fraîche, fresh oysters with pickled ramp. Even better, the servers wait for you and take away your fork or spoon or oyster shell (that I'm pretty sure I just sucked the oyster right out of, twice), making it all the easier to effortlessly mingle with the crowd that's here to raise money for a good cause. Sip. Bite. Sip. Bite.
Downstairs in the kitchen, there's an almost Zen feel to the evening's preparation, which belies the amount of activity in the hotel and full Capitol Grille dining room. There's no shouting, no running, just a room full of cooks with their heads down. "Yes, chef" is the operative term as one of Brown's deputies calls out orders to the line and sends servers back to the dining room with food. The loudest noise in the room, beside the occasional clank of a dish, is the low roar of the hood sucking air off of the stove. It's so quiet, in fact, that you can hear Frank finish his prep work way at the other end of the long kitchen, his knife rhythmically hitting the cutting board at about 250 beats per minute.
Upstairs, the room is ready and the staff have received their final instructions. Service is fussed over in the way you might expect it to be for a foreign dignitary, because in many ways, that's who Pontallier, the managing director of Chateau Margaux, is.
Chateau Margaux is among the oldest and most prestigious of French wineries, one of the five famous First Growths of Bordeaux. Its wine was first sold at Christie's before the Revolutionary War. When a financial crisis hit in 1973, the French government actually vetoed its sale to an American company because it was considered a national treasure. Pontallier is the guest of honor at the dinner, brought here by market — he is rolling out a new wine to restaurants in the U.S. — and by the quietly strong Nashville wine community. He has another connection, too: His son is a recent cancer survivor.
After guests are seated, Pontallier tells them what he has brought for them this evening from his cellars: a Pavillon Blanc du Château Margaux 2009, the only white produced by the winery; a Pavillon Rouge du Château Margaux 2003, which he calls a "controversial vintage" because of the heat that year; a Château Margaux 1999; a Château Margaux 1985, which you will rarely find for less than $500 per bottle in the U.S. All are very highly rated by people who rate these things.
Service brings an impeccably choreographed shuffle with each course, the first of which was an assiette nissarda from Frank. It's a play on a Niçoise salad, using fresh Gulf shrimp that have been lightly poached. The blanc that it's been paired with is subtle, almost too subtle for a country raised on buttery chardonnays. But with each taste, you understand why it's called a pairing — the microgreens and shellfish bring out the acidity in the wine.
The second course was pure Brown, a finger of octopus matched with a bit of peach, delicately creamed corn and a stopper of Fairy Tale eggplant. If it seems octopus is showing up everywhere, it is, but using that particular seafood is tricky, and the last thing you want is to give a room full of committed donors something too chewy to finish. Fortunately, this was as tender as you'll find.
The third course was the most American. Frank matched strip loin raised at the hotel's Double H Farms with fat tapioca pearls swimming in luscious melted Fiscalini cheddar. Think of it as slightly rare slices of beef with the greatest mac-and-cheese you can imagine. It's a dish that's been on his menu at La Toque for years. The wine, a Château Margaux 1999, was fuller than the 2003 Pavillon Rouge from the previous course, with a bigger nose and a bit more pepper to it. The wine is one of Pontallier's all-time favorites. "I think the '99 is starting to show what makes Château Margaux a unique wine," he said.
The '85 came out like a headline act. Guests who had been happy travelers to this point were now fully engaged, and there was a palpable buzz at our table. Several people around the room pushed back their glass and waited. A lifetime of drinking big cabernets and pinot noirs from California doesn't really prepare you for what a great Bordeaux tastes like. A more accomplished palate than mine might be able to talk about subtle notes of violet or hints of jasmine (these are actual tasting notes you can find out there), but what I noticed was its depth and balance. It engaged all of my taste buds. It left me with a slight ache at the pleasure it brought.
The final dish arrived before the plate hit the table, an aroma of Manjimup black truffle so strong you could smell it from several feet away. The quail — very tenderly prepared, no small feat if you've ever tried — was destined to be second fiddle to the truffles, no matter how nicely crushed those Yukon potatoes were. I subtly tried to bring my phone up for a picture so I could count the truffle shavings later and realized that fully half of my table was doing the same. Ten half-dollar-size shavings is just not something you see.
Meanwhile, I tried to ration my '85. After that first taste, I tried to calculate exactly how I could stretch this out through the dessert course, a wonderful dark chocolate torte from Brown with hazelnuts and fresh fruit. The couple to my left had departed early and left an entire half glass on the table. My table mates, who had put up with me scribbling notes throughout the meal, wouldn't think any less of me for appropriating it, would they? I decided against it. Maybe it was the tux talking.
"Most great wines are good to drink from Day 1," Pontallier said. "With these vintages, they were always good to drink. And they get better."
I can hardly imagine.
The dinner raised more than $100,000 for cancer research, and the weekend's events, including one of the largest one-day wine auctions in the country, raised substantially more.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I loosened my bow tie, walked toward the Capitol and returned to the real world.
Email arts@nashvillescene.com.
