One sip is all it took to hook me. Intent on feeding my caramel fixation one recent morning, I stopped by the La Cocina stall at the Ferry Plaza farmers' market for some alfajores. As I made my purchase, culinary director Jason Rose handed me a miniature paper cup filled with steaming Morning Glory Chai.

Cue the (food) porn soundtrack: boom-chicka-bow-wow chicka-bow-wow. The chai was spicy with a soupçon of exotic sweetness, and almost unbearably creamy. It was, hands down, the best chai I've ever tasted. I had to learn more.

Chai means tea in several languages, including Turkish and Russian, but it also refers to the intoxicating blend of warm milk, black tea, and aromatic Indian spices that has become a familiar drink on coffee shop menus. Most chais incorporate cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, freshly grated nutmeg, and pepper into the mix; Morning Glory adds all of those, as well as less common seasonings like vanilla bean, coriander, and orange peel. But what really sets Morning Glory apart is the inclusion of Chinese herbs, which give new meaning to the term "pick me up."

According to Laura Smailes, a certified clinical herbalist and the San Francisco manufacturer of Morning Glory Chai, there is astragulus to build the immune system and galangal to increase circulation. Gotu kola is good for the brain and, in conjunction with ginkgo, adds oxygen to the blood. Foti is added for longevity. "The Chinese say it will keep your hair black," she explains.

The Morning Glory Chai recipe dates back 12 years, when Seattle-based herbalist Jessica Vidica-Neisus brewed the first cup. "She chose herbs that were safe for anyone to use. There are no contraindications in these small doses. It's a way to get medicine into a tasty beverage." Put simply: "It increases circulation, brain function, and digestion."

Laura and Jessica met while Laura was apprenticing at an herbal apothecary and working at the Chai House in Seattle. When she moved to San Francisco to study ayurvedic medicine, she was looking for a way to support herself.

"I realized there was no good chai in San Francisco," Laura says. "I started the chai business to put myself through school." Two and a half years later, her chai is served at places like Farley's, Ritual Coffee Roasters, and Bi-Rite Creamery, where it is incorporated into a hot drinking chocolate.

Laura makes each batch by hand. She starts by filling a 30-gallon pot with filtered water. Once it's boiling, she simmers the herbs and spices for 45 minutes, then removes them and adds fair-trade black tea and ginkgo. Finally she adds honey, vanilla, and organic maple syrup to sweeten the chai. (A decaf version is brewed without tea.)

Laura's use of natural sweeteners means the chai is safe drinking for people with blood sugar problems such as hypoglycemia. It's also dairy-free, which gives people a choice of how to drink it. "It's traditionally drunk with steamed milk in India," Laura says. But some people prefer it straight up.

And the name? It is named for a flower known to induce an alternate state of consciousness. As Laura says, "It's the tea of dreams."

To brew at home: Combine equal parts chai and milk. Drink cold, or steam and serve hot. Once open, refrigerate and consume within three weeks. Refrigerate decaf chai immediately, whether open or not.

Available at Brickhouse Café & Bar, Farley's, MotoJava, Ritual Coffee Roasters. Also available in half-gallon jugs ($11) at Ferry Plaza & Alemany farmers' markets.

The first time I heard about biodynamic wine, it sounded, to me, like some odd French marketing gimmick. Not an unreasonable thought, considering the fact the bottle of wine being discussed was from Chateauneuf-du-Pape, a place known for prohibiting flying saucers or, as the French call them les cigares volantes from landing in their vineyards. I find it reassuring to me to see the French senses humor and creativity so alive and well. Of course, such laws also illustrate an equally French no non-sense approach to what fuels these qualities-- wine.

All we knew at the time was that biodynamic winemaking had something to do with the full moon. We all had a good laugh. My boss kept asking if various items around the restaurant -- it could have been a chair or a dog for all he cared-- were biodynamique. He just liked to say it. In French.

Biodynamism was, we thought, similar to organic winemaking, only more hippie-like.

I feel so ashamed of myself, I could just spit. It might be hippie-like, but it is definitely worth taking seriously.

So what exactly is biodynamic winemaking?

It is a category of biodynamic agriculture, which is essentially an organic farming system based primarily upon eight lectures on anthroposophy given by Rudolph Steiner in Germany in 1924.

Even in 1924, when man's faith in better living through chemistry was picking up speed, Steiner was convinced that the quality of food was being degraded by the use of artificial fertilizers and pesticides. Sounds very much like our modern, and fortunately blossoming, organic agricultural movement. What set Steiner and his biodynamism apart from the organic philosophy was more than his belief in the spiritual shortcomings of a chemical approach to farming. Steiner considered the world and everything in it as simultaneously spiritual and material in nature, that living matter was different from dead matter. He also believed in the influence of planetary events on agricultural crops. Ah, there's that moon reference.

Biodynamism is, more or less, a very holistic approach to organic farming.

You are, at this point, either yawning or scratching your head. If the former is the case, go get yourself a coffee and come back when your caffeine has kicked in. If the latter is true, read on and follow these links pertaining to biodynamic agriculture, vitalism and Demeter International and then get back to me. I'm happy to wait. It's a rather complex topic. One, with a slight bow to irony, not easily digested.

Two days ago, my fellow co-workers and I were fortunate enough to have someone explain it all-- or, at least his application of biodynamism-- to us.

Fresh from his stint as cover model for next week's Wine Spectator, Mike Benziger took some time out to both explain his biodynamic approach to winemaking and to let us taste the results-- his 2004 vintage Tribute.

He began his talk by asking us about various alcoholic beverages. What does beer do to you? He mentioned that it made one tired and gassy. Tequila? I muttered something about how it renders one stupid and causes one to sleep with people one might otherwise regret sleeping with sober. And wine?

"Wine is a high energy substance, it changes the spirit of the room as soon as the bottle is opened. Wine connects us to the sun, to the earth and to each other."

In two sentences, Benziger encapsulated what I belive to be essence of biodynamic winemaking, in as much as I can gather. Wine just might be the poster child for this approach to agriculture-- a mingling of living and dead matter that, if you will forgive me for saying, creates its own life force, therby enhancing our own. Unless, I thought, one drinks excessive amounts of it and dies of alcohol poisoning, I reminded myself that biodynamism is about cosmic balance and the thought passed.

To Benziger, biodynamism is about a personal connection to the land. And he is certainly connected to his. He's been working his 85 acres for the past twenty-five years. Only forty of which are planted with vines. The rest, in the closed farming tradition of biodynamism, are occupied by such things as stables, insectaries and pasture.

Biodynamism considers the environment more important than the plant, the whole trumping any of its parts. In Benziger's vineyard, one might be overwhelmed by environment, or at least cataloging it. His vines are planted in a circle created naturally by volcanic crater. Over the years, Benziger has recognized thirty-one distinct microclimates within that circle-- each contributing it's own particular qualities to the final blend of his wine.

Biodynamism dictates that man work within nature's boundaries rather than bend it to his own will. This, of course, is a dictum impossible to follow since agriculture is essentially a system created by man to exploit and propagate that nature which serves him best and eliminate--or at least exclude-- that which does not. Those rabid enough to adhere to such a strict construction would be reduced, in my opinion, to hunting and gathering. Fortunately, Benziger and, I'm sure, most other biodynamic farmers approach this idea with a more practical spirit.

To eliminate a dependence upon chemical pesticides, plants are planted to attract beneficial insects to the vineyards. Insects are neither purchased nor physically transported, but rather invited onto the property by means of what Benziger refers to as "bug highways"-- swaths of specific plants that lure the insects directly into the vineyard.

In addition to insects and creative planting, various animals are utilized to keep down the number of pests-- chickens and owls, for example. Grazers, such as Scottish Highland cattle and sheep keep weeds in check and remove any need for chemical fertilizers. "Sheep are a great viticultural tool." quipped Benziger, "They do three things for us: they eat, shit and turn the soil with their hooves." Who needs a tractor?

With the removal of chemical pesticides and fertilizer comes the eventual return of native yeasts, which are, he believes, essential to the character of his wine.

The goal with biodynamic farming is a closed environmental system. The borders between natural and farmed areas eventually merge and begin to speak, as Benziger says, "the language of terroir." Which, of course, is also essential to the character of his wine.

And how does biodynamism apply to the process of winemaking?

Here's where the moon comes in. Don't cringe. It makes perfect sense. Wine is racked only under a new moon. Why? sendiment is at its most compact at this time. The tidal pull of a full moon causes it to puff up.

Biodynamic regulations, as laid down by Demeter International, also dictate that no yeast or malolactic bacteria may be added to the wine though sulpher dioxide is allowed. Apologies, I forgot to ask why this was so., I was busy drawing the Demeter logo in my notebook, since the logo on Benziger's bottle did not photograph well:

The logo sums it up, I'd say. From the top left and working clockwise around the four quadrants are: fire, air, earth (which I drew somewhat inaccurately) and water. Everything in the universe, according to the Ancients, was comprised of some combination of these elements. What the logo does not show, however is a fifth element; one created when the four other elements get together-- spirit. It does sport a rather intriguing symbol directly under the name Demeter. Being the strong fertility goddess she was to the Greeks, I am not certain if the symbol represents some sort of budding plantlife or not. I prefer to see it as a highly stylized hermaphrodite. One with enormous breasts and a penis dangling between its legs. How much more fertile can one get than that?

Okay. We've heard about how the vines were tended and how the grapes were vinified. But what about the taste? Benziger poured.

It was good. It was more than good, truthfully. Everyone in the room agreed. I must add here that I am talking about a room full of people who have, at one time, more or less rejected California Cabernet Sauvignons and blends thereof as showy and often juvenile-- an embarrassment to be around. Not that they all are, but more in the spirit of rejecting one's parents as an embarrassment in one's teenage years.

Benziger's 2004 Tribute is a well balanced wine, with soft-but-present tannin, hints of cedar, black cherry and, not surprisingly given todays topic of biodynamism, a certain earthiness. The finish lingered. It doesn't try to out-macho its neighbors with an over-powering amout of oak. Silver Oak is a man who wears too much Brut and tells time by his gaudy Rolex. Tribute stands by its own, natural masculine scent and tells time by the position of the sun in the sky. Orthe moon, depending upon the time of day.

More importantly, I imagined I could taste everything that went into making the wine-- the volcanic crater, the bees, even the Scottish Highland cows. Not literally, mind you but, knowing the effort and, well, the love that went into making this wine made the experience of drinking it even more pleasurable.

After the Benziger's talk, my wine director was excited. "You're going to see a lot more of these wines coming along." I'm glad. It's the wave of the future that many winemakers are considering riding. Wave of the future. Odd how a technique older than Charlemagne can be considered futuristic. Winemaking has now made a full circle-- or is it full cycle?-- like the moon that rules over the biodynamic process. It's about time.

I'll stop giggling now. I promise.

*Note. The pyramid diagram is borrowed from the Benziger website.

Barely over my ecstasy from that first amaranth-hued glass, I decided to sample another grape-smeared offering from Marin Wines, their Mount Tamalpais Merlot. My god. My GOD!

Now, yes, Merlot has been battered about by the Hollywood likes of Sideways and bad examples of the glass. And, because it had been at least five years since I traded in my last glass of Merlot for Zinfandels, Francs, Barbarescos, and anything found in the Rhone, I also laughed knowingly along with the rest of the Northern California audience as Paul Giamatti's character, Miles, slagged off on the once-popular wine.

It wasn't even that I agreed with what his character, Miles, said about Merlot, it's that I had long left what I considered a cloyingly sweet and flat red for rougher cut pastures and vines. Certain Merlots were shuddering reminders of my White Zinfandel-tinted youth, and I knew that my palette had grown up and was guiding me to richer and more complex climes.

However, last year I went to a traveling seminar sponsored by Swanson Vineyards called "Merlot Fights Back." Not only did I get reintroduced to Merlot and reminded just how good that beleaguered grape can be, but I learned that the special bottle of '61 Cheval Blanc Miles had been saving was a 50/50 blend of Cabernet Franc and Merlot. That's right, fifty percent "fucking Merlot." However, I still wasn't buying it by the bottle or even ordering it in restaurants. Until now.

Mount Tamalpais Merlot is remarkably robust and much more like the Bordeaux of old than the fruity, jammy, Smucker's Merlots I had given up. Rich and musty with shifting prisms of loamy complexity, this Merlot massaged my soul with long, intense strokes. After one sip, I felt myself sinking bodily into my garnet glass.

As with any new and exciting bottle, this wine deserved a special dinner, so I paired it with a flagelot bean gratin, rare rosemary-flecked sirloin lamb chops, and a peppery watercress, fennel, and French Breakfast radish salad. Limbs entangled endlessly, the creamy beans, the gamey lamb, and the crunch-spice salad wallowed happily with the velvet-tongued wine.

You can buy Mount Tamalpais Merlot at PlumpJack Wines and the Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant in San Francisco, at Tomales Bay Foods in Point Reyes, and from the Marin Wine website.

Mount Tamalpais Merlot, 2004, $25.00

Which newspaper food sections do you read? I subscribe to the San Francisco Chronicle, so I always check out that food section, but I also like to peruse several others online. Here's what you'll find this week.
Note: Each require registration, which is free.

The New York Times
My first stop on Wednesday is usually the New York Times. There is often some provocative article there. This week it's about a chef suing over intellectual property. Apparently a past sous chef at one restaurant has opened a restaurant that may have copied everything from the interior style to the recipes of his past employer.
This week there are also articles about the sexy look of women chef on television, a report on Thai fruits that are no longer banned in America and The Minimalist column by Mark Bittman. In the current column he takes on tuna, explaining the differences between bluefin and yellowfin and sharing cooking techniques and a recipe.

The Los Angeles Times
This week there is an article about the chocolatiers of Barcelona that caught my eye and brought back memories of my trip and chocolate excursions just a year ago. The incomparable Russ Parsons writes about this years crop of stone fruit. He also includes a recipe for cobbler, which sounds more like a crumble to me. There are also some paella recipes that make me think I need to run out and buy a paella pan, like today.

The Washington Post
An article on how Pinot Noir pairs with salmon is timely now that wild salmon is showing up in markets. Also worth checking out are the recipes from the Smithsonian Folklife Festival for Brunswick Stew, Buttermilk Pancakes and Yunnan Style Cold Rice Noodles.

If you have a favorite food section, let me know in the comments section.

I have been finding my food news in some interesting places. When I only have a minute or two and need the most information possible, I check out the Ethicurean's Daily Digest for the latest on food policy, industrial agriculture, and activist projects going on around the world.

But when I have a little more time, one of the first places I look is Grist. Grist is an online magazine published by Grist Magazine, Inc. -- a non-profit organization with a mission of educating and energizing "the next generation of environmentalists with hard news delivered with a light touch".

I first noticed Grist's commitment to reporting food-related stories when they began publishing articles by Tom Philpott in 2005. Philpott co-founded Maverick Farms, an educational farm in North Carolina. He's a fantastic writer who brings thought-provoking topics to the table. He writes with a farmer's perspective, and often rounds out food politics debates with a point-of-view not being written about by others. This week, for instance, Philpott published "The hand that feeds: don't blame farms for the farm-subsidy mess," an article challenging those of us who assume that an elimination of farm subsidies would go a long way in ending the inequities created by industrial agriculture. Check out the comments thread for this article as well -- they are very interesting.

Grist's general food coverage is often interesting and new. Samuel Fromartz, the author of Organic, Inc. and the writer at the Chews Wise blog, writes for Grist. He recently wrote a post for Grist's blog about the ousting of a large organic dairy from organic certification.

One of my favorite sections of Grist is the Ask Umbra column in which Umbra Fisk tries to answer questions that we can't find answers to. In the past few months, I have learned whether aluminum bottles are safer than Nalgene-type bottles, and if it's more energy efficient to boil water for tea on the stove, in a microwave, or in an electric kettle. Not all Ask Umbra columns are food-related. In a column on Monday, Umbra hilariously tackled whether it's more environmental to pee in the ocean or behind a sand dune.

If you're an RSS-fiend like me, you can sign up for food specific posts to Grist, or for email updates to different sections of the site. It's an interesting place to get food politics news and read opinions from some of the key leaders in the policy field.

As one of my colleagues said the other day, the farmers markets are "lousy with strawberries." I don't mind the glut, as my own last meal would be a bowl of strawberries, a taste of life short and sweet.

The best way to eat the fruit is whole, out of hand, one after the other until they're entirely gone. There are, of course, many ways to gild the lily: strawberries and balsamic vinegar, strawberries and brown sugar, strawberries and red wine, strawberries and cream, strawberry shortcake, strawberries and rhubarb pie....

If you're driving on Highway 1 just north of Santa Cruz, be sure to stop at Swanton Berry Farm. Next to their U-pick strawberry fields in Davenport, you'll find their Farm Stand. With its old-fashioned honor till, the store offers fresh-made pies, shortcake, cobbler and jams. Everything there is made by the farm's own staff with berries they grow themselves. A flat of sweet, ripe strawberries costs only $15 dollars. They have the best berries around, but there are a couple of other reasons why I support their farm. Swanton devotes itself to strict organic standards, and they employ field laborers who all belong to the United Farm Workers.

The last time I was there, I went a little crazy and got two flats and a blackberry pie. (For non-gluttons: 1 flat = 6 baskets.) Finishing three baskets myself on the winding road back, I macerated a couple more baskets in fresh orange juice for shortcake and then sugared the rest for jam as soon as I got back home. I've learned the hard way that organic strawberries don't last as long as conventional, but making jam is my own way of stretching out their flavor as long as I can.

My cheater's strawberry sherbet is another recipe that I only make when the freshest, sweetest strawberries are coming to market. Food Editor Pasty Jamieson gave it to me over a dozen years ago, while I was her intern at Eating Well Magazine in Vermont, far from California's warm fields. Back then, all I owned fit into three cardboard boxes and one suitcase. I still make this treat every spring and summer because it's so easy and so good. There have been flirtations with fancier versions, like lemongrass syrup or thyme-infused buttermilk, but I've always returned to the flavor of simpler times.

Strawberry Buttermilk Quick Sherbet

Trim calyx leaves from a pint of strawberries and arrange them in a single layer on a tray or baking sheet. Freeze until hard entirely through. Transfer the strawberries to the bowl of a food processor. Sprinkle in 2 tablespoons of buttermilk, 1 to 2 tablespoons of sugar, and a squirt of fresh lemon juice. Pulse until smooth, scraping down the sides as needed. For a softer texture, add up to 1 more tablespoon of buttermilk, and then adjust sweet and sour to your taste. Serve immediately or transfer to an air-tight container and freeze up to a week.

One of my favorite parts of cooking school was our time in the bread kitchen. There is something so tactile, immediate and rewarding about making bread. All your senses are activated alerting you that you are about to consume something so simple yet so profound. Alice Waters visited the French Culinary Institute and I was fortunate enough to abscond with a few minutes of her time. My one question to her was simply: "What am I going to do with my life?" She said, "What do you want to do?" "I want to go to France!" "Well then go to France!" So I did.... but first I asked her to recommend restaurants where I should work. I shared with her my love of bread baking in cooking school and she recommended contacting Poilane Bakery here on the Left Bank. So I did.... When Alice Waters give you culinary advice, take it, whether it's moving to another country or visiting a bakery!

I immediately wrote to Poilane, asking for an internship and received the most gracious rejection letter ever, which I will frame should I ever have an office again, saying they were unable to accommodate interns but invited me for a tour. A few months later I spent a glorious, flour-showered morning in their 17th century bread kitchen, formerly a convent, on rue Cherche-Midi in the heart of the Left Bank mesmerized by the baker and his methodical yet maternal handling of the dough. I can picture him now gently pressing his hand on top of each loaf, just before he slid the perfectly shaped dough cut with his signature "P" into the wood-burning oven. It is one of four original wood-burning ovens in all of Paris. I emerged 2 hours later coated in a thin layer of flour from head to toe.

A room of the small shop is covered floor to ceiling with paintings of bread. Mr. Poilane was a friend to the artists, many of whom lived in the neighborhood. When they couldn't afford bread, they would exchange a painting for a loaf or two of bread. The Poilane art collection now includes stunning works by Chagall, Picasso, Monet, Dali, etc. His friend Dali once asked him to bake a bedroom set for him, bed, dresser, lamp, et al. Rather than laughing it on, Poilane accepted this challenge and in honor of his accomplishment, they hand a bread chandelier in their store at all time. When it finally crumbles beyond repair, they bake another one!

While I was there, a book delivery arrived that caused great excitement amongst the staff. Mr. Poilane's daughter, Apollonia who is in her early 20s and is now running the enterprise (while juggling Harvard Business School) since the tragic death of her parents a few years ago, had just published a book, Supplique au Pape, of Mr. Poilane's writings on his quest to change the name of one of the seven deadly sins. It is a fascinating story that adds yet another layer of wonder to this man. As it goes, one of the seven deadly sins, gluttony, in French was translated as "gourmandise" and this very much upset Mr. Poilane. He discussed this with philosophers, doctors, scientists, chefs, priests, statesmen, writers, professors, business executives, and actresses and he wrote a very long letter to the Pope (Pape) asking for and explaining why the word should be changed from "gourmandise" to the true French word for gluttony which I believe translates to "glutton" pronounced glue-TON. So this book is his letter to the Pope, along with all his writings, notes and discussions on this subject. I wish I had better command of the language so that I could read it and truly appreciate his endeavor and his prose. Until then, i'll just keep eating his spectacular bread.

No fancy hi-tech equipment here, just good old-fashioned bread baking!

Feeding the beast - the oven in the basement of a former convent.

Rising...

And ready to eat!

-----------------
Poilane
8, rue Cherche-Midi
Paris 75005
www.poilane.fr/

There are some things in this world best left to the imagination; people, places or events so idealized they could never live up to the expectations built up around them -- your wedding day or a menage a trois with a pair of identical twins or, in this case, dinner at what has been referred to as the best restaurant in the world-- The French Laundry.

Ten years ago, a friend organized a chauffeur-driven pilgrimage to the French Laundry. Being fresh out of culinary school, I could scarcely afford the dinner, so I politely declined the invitation. Besides, I had been taught that limousines were for funerals and diplomats, so riding in one was out of the question. I was anything but diplomatic in those days and, had I chosen to spend what little money I had from my $8.50 an hour kitchen job, the only funeral I would have been attending would have been my own after my parents decided to kill me.

I'd regretted not going ever since. I've since wondered what it would be like to dine there. When my friend Lyle invited me to join him in place of his mostly vegetarian and largely non-drinking girlfriend, I said yes. Two days later, I went to see Thomas Keller interviewed along with Dorothy Cann Hamilton at the Commonwealth Club. I enjoyed hearing him discuss his philosophies regarding life, food and a life in food. I was excited that I would soon be sitting in his dining room eating what he had to offer.

I don't think anyone living beneath a certain sky-high tax bracket can go to The French Laundry without making it into some sort of event. It is not, by it's own design, a place one goes to grab something to eat. When we visit, we pack our emotional baggage full of inflated expectations and drag it behind us through the little garden and into the front door. It is the one thing the hostess who greets you is unable to check.

My fellow diners and I arrived on time for our 6:30 reservation and were whisked into a little side room, dimly lit and cool like a cave with walls of river rock, where our table awaited us. A little window cut into the rock showed off the wine room. If this was, as I had sensed, a place of worship, we were seated in its chapel.

Two couples shared our space. One pair dined with such grim seriousness that I thought one of them-- or their relationship-- might have only days to live. The other couple, from Houston as I gathered from their limited conversation, looked a little bewildered and on their best behaviour. I leaned into the center of our table and whispered to my dinner companions, "Why is everyone so quiet? No one seems to be having a good time!"

It was true. Except for us, of course.

Our waiter soon introduced himself, explaining and expanding upon the nine course menu. He was aware of the two bottles of Burgundy we had brought with us and suggested that we might start with a bottle of champagne, since it went so well with the first four courses. Lyle was presented with a wine list and we were given a moment to look it over. Lyle passed the list over to me and I browsed. We had agreed amongst ourselves that we weren't interested in champagne, but some sort of white wine was definitely in order. I saw a short list of Austrian wines that interested me. When the waiter returned, asking which champagne we might prefer, I told him we were interested in drinking a still white wine instead. Feeling rather dense, I said as much and handed the list back over to Lyle. Our waiter once again suggested champagne. We once again declined.

Enter the sommelier. We assumed he was the sommelier, since he was very knowledgable about wine, but he did not introduce himself as such. I explained that I was looking at Austian wines. Lyle mentioned his preference for crisp minerality, for something interesting at around $60. The gentleman returned almost instantly with precisely what we were looking for-- and Austrian Riesling. We were very delighted with his selection.

The food began its slow, steady dance to our table. And I do mean dance. Movements are choreographed. Servers perform what is known as ballet service-- dishes are served in synchronized sweeps by, in our case, two people. Plates from the left hands glide down in front of diners one and three followed by plates from the right, supplying diners two and four. It is all seemless, perfect. A simple, well flavored gougère here, a doll-sized black sesame tuille cone filled with Scottish salmon served there. Both charming. The two amuses seemed to carry with them bold-faced bullet points in what I imagine to be Thomas Keller's mission statement: the former promised a mastery of understatement, while the latter promised the evening of theater that lay ahead of us. Conflicting messages certainly, but not incompatible.

Our food selections were noted and our deciphering of lampshades applauded by our waiter.

Wash. Do not use bleach. Iron. I wondered how many of the other diners in the restaurant had an intimate knowledge of laundering. We turned our attention briefly to the linen. Not a crease or stain to be found. I noticed that my napkin was the size of an adult diaper and was, in fact, folded as such over my lap. I quietly tucked the edges around my hips and under my crotch and hoped no one noticed as I looked down to admire my handiwork.

With the meal under way, our conversation turned to food, as it invariably does with foodies. "There's a slight bitterness to the foie gras. What is that?" ."Lyle? Okay. Did that little Tokyo turnip just explode in your mouth like it did in mine?" "Did he say Jurassic Period salt?"

And such like.

I am pleased to tell you-- pleased to tell myself, at any rate-- that I was too busy enjoying the company of my dining companions and the food before us to be snapping many photos of the food. I did manage one or two, like the one of the Line-Caught Atlantic Halibut shown below:

I made an attempt to capture the pretzel rolls-- Lyle's favorite thing-- on film, but it looked rather unappealing in the photograph. "Did you try a pretzel roll yet? God! It tastes just like a pretzel!" We then explained to him that it was, in fact, a soft pretzel which merely lacked a knot.

As we finished off the bottle of Austrian Riesling and tucked into a beautiful Volnay given to Lyle as a birthday present, our conversation became more animated. So, too, did the main dining room. I actually heard laughter from some place other than our table. I turned around to see a room full of 55 to 65 year-olds dining and chatting. Over my right shoulder, a table of European businessmen with deep voices and, surprisingly bright-colored socks. I wondered what they were talking about and where they would go after dinner. I made no plans to join them.

Back at our table, the conversation turned to Evelyn Waugh-- Brideshead Revisited and my favorite character, A-A-Antoine. He had a stutter. Lyle's friend Jack and I offered our impersonations. I asked if he had ever seen or read The Loved One. He offered a detailed rendition Liberace's brilliant upselling of funeral services at Whispering Glades. I was impressed. Later in the meal, I learned why Jack took such an interest in that scene-- he's a funeral director.

At this point I went up the narrow staircase-- a staff member nearly hurling himself over the bannister to make way for me-- to wash my hands for the second time and, for the second time, found the single occupancy room empty and spotless. It seemed as if it were merely for show-- toilet tissue wrapped in silk ribbon, unused. Cute, but I wondered if people in polite society ever rid themselves of unneccesary body weight, or if they had people to do that for them. I returned to our table to find my diaper folded neatly on the table. We finished our sixth course -- a Snake River Farm "Calotte de Boeuf Grillée"-- with not too much comment. It was excellent. Techinically perfect. Of course it was.

Yet something was not quite right. At least to me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The food was uniformly beautiful, flavorful and perfectly executed to the detection of both my eyes and palate. The dishware and silver were often conversation pieces. The rooms were lovely-- well-appointed and understated as though to counterbalance the fact that this building once housed a brothel.

And the staff? A sudden chill came over me. Or was that the Glacé de Fruits Exotiques set before me after the cheese course?

There was, below the smooth, perfect surfaces of the French Laundry, a subtle uneasiness; a tautness under its skin, like that of a woman fresh from a facelift-- eager to please her wealthy lover and unable to relax her facial muscles.

I scanned the members of the staff. Everyone was clean, very attractive and well tailored. They all smiled, but not too widely, as though no one should have a better time than the guests. Eye contact was always just narrowly avoided. Or did I imagine that? If our waiter would attempt levity, he would say, "I am only joking" before any of us had even the time to react. The fear of offense was fascinating. There was a Stepford-like quality to the members of the front-of-house staff that I found troublesome.

When he spoke at the Commonwealth Club, Thomas Keller stated that "Cooking is about repetition-- the perfection of the task at hand." I would agree with him there. Mr. Keller has perfected his cooking through strict repetition. But that repetition seems to makes its way into the dining room as well, which is unfortunate. When our food was brought to the table, it was described in marvelous detail, but it the delivery of information gave the impression of having been memorized, scripted and completely uniform. No color. Words like gougère and gratinée were mispronounced.

When our bill was presented, we were disappointed but not terribly offended that we had been charged $50 for uncorking the bottle we'd brought and had opened for us. In my experience as a waiter, if a guest brings a bottle of wine yet purchases a bottle from a restaurant's wine list, the corkage fee is waived. But I do not make policy and we were already of the mind to pay it before we even sat down, but it struck a slightly sour note at the end of our evening.

As we looked over our bill, Jack made a generous offer-- that he would pay for the food if the rest of us took care of the rest. Then the waiter, who happened to be standing between Lyle and Jack, offered that he would be happy to split the check four ways, if we liked. Jack replied that that woulnd't be necessary and that we just needed a minute to figure out the bill. Instead of leaving us alone with our bill, our waiter picked it up from the table. I cannot remember why, but I'm sure there was a logical reason for it. Lyle asked what the total was and, in what I hope was an attempt to be helpful, our waiter then read our bill-- which was, I'm sure quite conservative by French Laundry standards-- out loud.

"Food: $1,020... Wine: $166..."

We were pleased to know that everyone in the room knew how much we spent. Perhaps our waiter thought that a guest at one of the other tables might avail us of his or her superior math skills. We were, all of us, quietly horrified.

The check was paid. Shortbread cookies and copies of the night's menu were distributed, two round coasters with the restaurant's name on them that reminded me of dress shields were pocketed and we left.

On the drive home, we talked about our experience. We all enjoyed it very much. The food was wonderful, but only the little Tokyo turnips and chocolate-covered macadamia nuts were hailed as "amazing." We were well-sated bodily. Just enough food, just enough wine. But none of us saw it as truly fantastic. Not the best meal ever.

And that is our own damned fault. Or mine, at least. There must be such tremendous pressure to operating a restaurant like The French Laundry. It's an institution. It's a shrine to which so many come expecting the greatest meal of their lives. With food prices of $240 ($270 if one opts for foie gras), one almost demands it. How can one restaurant satisfy all the unspoken expectations of, well, everyone who has ever dined there, or ever will? It can't.

Perhaps Mr. Keller is correct in his approach of uniformity and repitition. It seems to be working for him and, I'm sure, the majority of diners there. It is his consistency that has kept his machinery well-oiled and running more or less smoothly since 1994. I just don't think it's for me. Which I can accept as either my own virtue or my own flaw. Whatever the case, it is my own.

I am, however, extremely glad I had the opportunity to dine there. I applaude Keller's food, his technique and his sense of fun-- at least on the plate. Now if he could just get his waitstaff to loosen up...

Last week, a friend from cooking class tipped me off to B Star Bar, the month-old offshoot of Burma Superstar that's located two blocks away on Clement Street. B Star Bar offers a blend of Burmese, Asian, and Western dishes, and though it doesn't outshine the Mother Ship, it's worth a visit if you can't bear BSS's legendary two-hour wait.

Though they don't take reservations for parties smaller than six, when I called they were kind enough to take one anyway for the three of us. A nice touch, I thought, and smart for a new restaurant that's trying to attract customers. There's no sign up yet, but if you look for a swash of yellow paint you'll see the words B Star Bar stenciled on the window. We walked in last Saturday night to find some friends killing time (and taking the edge off their hunger) while they waited for their table at Burma Superstar. "Order the croquettes!" they advised.

I didn't linger in the large, spare front room, but headed straight to the back patio, which is the place to be. Buddha statues and lush green foliage create an exotic, jungle-y feel for the dozen or so tables, and a few glimpses of the night sky peek out from the tent. There are enough heat lamps to keep everybody comfortable in shirtsleeves.

The menu combines traditional Burmese preparations with Asian and Western classics. Sometimes the dishes are a mix of several traditions, but more often than not each one sticks to its own. We started with spicy edamame ($3.95), a bowl of green pods slick with red chilies and chunks of garlic. They were fiery, and after a few bites my battle-damaged tongue begged for a break.

I was dismayed when everything we ordered arrived at once, and though the wait staff were attentive, the coursing made it clear both they and the kitchen are inexperienced. The Kabocha croquettes ($5.95) came three panko-dusted orbs to a plate. They're filled with Kabocha squash and seasoned with tomatoes and curry before being deep-fried. They were sweet, as was the addictive sticky sauce that accompanied them. Though the result wasn't quite one-dimensional, I wouldn't have objected to a bit more crunch.

I was eagerly anticipating the tealeaf salad ($7.95), a BSS classic. I was disappointed that it wasn't tossed tableside, and it was missing some of the complexity I loved due to the omission of dried shrimp and jalapeños. But the uniquely bitter tang of tealeaves was unmistakable, and we polished off every last bite. A desperate plea to the management: please, please, please, bring back the original.

We ordered two kinds of noodles, and my favorite dish of the evening was the kau soi ($8.95)- ramen-like noodles mixed with ground chicken and pickled mustard greens in a coconut curry sauce. The menu calls this bordertown food; I don't know if that refers to Bangladesh, India, China, Laos or Thailand, all of which butt up to Myanmar. It's similar to BSS's nan pia dok, a dish that I once said I would walk through crushed glass to eat, and I would do the same for the kau soi.

The other noodle dish was see jyet ($7.95), thin, long noodles with fried garlic, shredded duck, and cucumbers. It wasn't garlicky enough to wow me, or to surpass its virtuoso cousin, but my dining companions lapped it up.

The Asian Niçoise salad with grilled cod ($10.95) is one of the few creations that blends culinary traditions. Field greens were topped with lightly blanched asparagus, fanned avocado slices, shiitake mushrooms, hard-boiled egg, and grilled cod and tossed with miso dressing. My favorite part was the pile of handmade sweet potato chips on the side, but I'd probably skip the entire thing next time.

Short ribs with Hawaiian-style pineapple fried rice ($9.95) were hit and miss. The rice was built with juicy chunks of grilled pineapple and grains moistened by a slippery fried egg yolk. The kimchee was bracingly hot, but the short ribs were tough and fatty. If they'd upgrade the meat, however, I'd order it again in a heartbeat.

We brought our own wine, but they have some decent options by the glass, carafe, and bottle, as well as soju cocktails and the famous Burma cooler, beer spiked with ginger and fresh lemon. After gorging ourselves on noodles, we passed on dessert.

Though I applaud the Burma Superstar crew for wanting to spread their wings, by far the most successful dishes were the Burmese-leaning ones. If B Star Bar can tighten up the menu, incorporating intoxicating Burmese touches with better-executed pan-Asian and Western ideas, they could have a good thing going. For now, keep them in mind if you simply can't stomach the wait up the street.

Note: This write-up is based on one anonymous visit.

B Star Bar
127 Clement St. b/w 2nd & 3rd
San Francisco
(415) 933-9900
Open every day but Wednesday for lunch and dinner

Every Wednesday I head over to the New York Times online to peruse the food section, and Mark Bittman's column, The Minimalist is the first column I turn to. I like Mark Bittman because he's a bit like me when it comes to cooking. He is not a professional chef and makes no claims about his kitchen skills. He tries all kinds of dishes then sets about simplifying them into recipes that ensure success for even the novice. Can we give this guy a medal or what?

His latest cookbook, Mark Bittman's Quick & Easy Recipes from The New York Times is a must have for just about any home cook because it's full of recipes that take minimum effort but deliver maximum flavor and style. There are no fancy techniques necessary and most of the recipes use supermarket ingredients often with very short ingredient lists. If you need a basic salad recipe or a recipe for French Bread you can make in the food processor that requires no kneading, this is your book. If you've always wanted to cook duck, but feel a bit intimidated, recipes like Panfried Duck or Slow-Cooked Duck Legs with Olives should give you all the confidence you need. Look for variations in the margins so you can make the recipes your own.

The 350 international recipes in the book were originally published in some of his other "Minimalist" books. That means you'll find dishes you can make ahead, serve to company and generally whip up in a flash. Many of the recipes are Asian, Italian or French, but there are a good number of American recipes as well. The book is softcover and has no glossy photos, but most recipes fit on one page making it practical and easier to use than an overblown coffee table book. For years I've recommended his "How to Cook Everything" books for my non-cooking friends. But even when I'm not pressed for time, this is one cookbook that I know I will turn to again and again.

Tomato-Melon Gazpacho
Makes 4 servings
Time: 20 minutes, plus time to chill

4 tomatoes (about 1 1/2 pounds)
one 3-pound cantaloupe
2 tablespoons olive oil
10 fresh basil leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Juice of 1 lemon

1. Cut the tomato flesh into 1-inch chunks. Seed the melon and remove the flesh from the rind; cut into chunks. Put a tablespoon of olive oil in each of two 1-- or 12-inch skillets and turn the heat under both to high (you can do this sequentially if you have only one skillet). Add the melon to one skillet and the tomatoes to the other and cook, stirring, until they become juicy, no longer than 2 minutes.

2. In a blender, puree the melon, tomato, 11/2 cups water of 1 cup water plus 1/2 cup ice cubes, and the basil, along with some salt and pepper. Chill, then add lemon juice to taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve.