Wine Country Shenanigans Pt. 2 - French Laundry

A French laundromat of whorehouse origin, indeed. Continuing this cryptic nonsense, I will go on to describe the two hours that followed our delightful breakfast, in as little detail as possible, of course. Mr. Keller likes to keep dings on da down-low.

So, we were invited into his lair, molested quite a few copper-plated pots and pans, roamed around unbridled in his pristine kitchen, meditated in the meat locker, locked ourselves in the bathroom to shoot some... things, and did some more molesting in the wine cellar. And then we decided to leave the men-in-white to their tasks.


Keller's kitchen getting a shot of botulinum


Destined to be my wallpaper during finals


Does this even need a caption?


As vulnerable as a goose with an unenlarged liver


Medical marjoram

Now that that's out of the way, on to some comprehensible narration. We had roughly one hour to go before lunch at Redd, so a very brief wine-tasting tour was in order. We noted that just few minutes north of Washington St. on 29-N was PlumpJack Winery. As we are quite the suckers for all things sleek+San Francisco, Gavin Newsom's establishment seemed like an ideal spot to relax away the mid-morning. That is, until we settled on Neibaum-Coppola, just a couple of exits farther, instead.

We never made it in, though, and learned one thing during our drive: If you own a piece of hot land alongside Hwy 29, you should not obscure your vineyard's name or hide the entrance driveway to the extent that drivers can't find you. Not only do you risk losing their business, you also risk getting sued for their death in the unforgiving highway traffic.

The disappointment that resulted from our fruitless drive was quickly remedied by a spectacular meal at Redd.