Michelin Star Feast With Friends At Aubergine In Carmel-By-the-Sea

Because sometimes, if you are very, very lucky, it all comes together in a perfect moment of friendship and culinary bliss.

The fog hung like thick, heavy cotton candy from the sky as it dropped eerily down, scraping the old rooftops and hiding the cypress trees in its velvet fluffy rolls. It was a ghostly shroud that was casually tossed over the roof above as it enveloped this quaint beach house I rented in Carmel-By-The-Sea. At the last moment, I decided to turn a one-day trip into a weekend experience by renting this quiet bungalow, neatly tucked into the residential part of town. It was a slow morning, the kind of morning that made you question whether the world beyond my kitchen window still even existed. The mist outside clung to the windows with teary claws as it rolled down the glass in random streaks obscuring the view of the Pacific Ocean that was roaring in the distance. Just standing in the kitchen, I could clearly hear the rhythmic crashing of waves as a constant, soothing backdrop in my cozy, coastal cocoon.

I strolled barefoot across the warm wooden floors, my feet sticking to the rough planks. The house creaked and settled around me like it was a living entity, breathing and shifting under my weight. The kitchen was a modest affair with its weathered countertops and vintage appliances. I made myself very at home here, making several meals, including what I could only describe as a comfort-food dinner, paired with a phenomenal Napa Valley Cabernet that I wished I had more of. But, I managed to polish it off slowly over the course of an evening while enjoying the audible crashing of the rough ocean in the distance. My own private concert of nature. There was something so deeply satisfying about cooking here, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. Maybe it was the small act of domesticity that grounded me in an unfamiliar place. Maybe it was the warmth and comfort of the food that I had made. Maybe it was the bougie cabernet that I had selfishly drank all by myself. Or maybe, just maybe, it was all of those things combined that made this visit so incredibly unforgettable.

I reached deep into the fridge and pulled out a small carton of farm fresh eggs from the back. It was a gift from my neighbor when I arrived at my rental. I selected a couple of eggs from the carton and cracked them into a bowl. They splashed around the slick stainless steel edges, dancing across the metal with little resistance. Their yolks glowed a vibrant orange as they shifted back and forth. I scooped a dollop of crème fraîche into the eggs. The generous spoonful floated on top, its tangy richness a perfect counterpoint to the eggs' simplicity and smoothness. I whisked thoroughly as I stood mesmerized by the fog outside of my window. The rhythmic clunking of the metal whisk was nearly hypnotic as I stared deeply into the cloudy horizon, trying to match the sounds of the crashing waves to their hidden visual. I was on autopilot as the pan sizzle broke me out of the longing stare and focused my attention back to the stove. The eggs hit the hot surface of the ripping, hot pan as the sound of them cooking mingled with the distant roar of the ocean outside. Gently, I pushed the eggs around the scorching pan, as I watched them form soft, creamy mounds, becoming more solid and congealed. Food doesn't always need to be complicated to be delicious. These simple eggs were creating an aroma in my kitchen that was making me inhale deeply, my empty stomach instantly reacting to the scent floating in the air. I forgot that I had left the window open as I cooked, and the drifting smell of my morning preparation explained why my neighbor suddenly popped his head up over the fence in the adjoining yard as he sniffed the air, a smile forming on his face when he found the source of the scent.

I sat at the small kitchen table savoring each bite of my impromptu breakfast. I was struck by the stillness of this house. There were no phones ringing. No pedestrians walking by me. No loud orders being yelled out in the kitchen. There was just the muffled sound of waves pounding in the distance with the occasional cry of a seagull trying to fight over its own breakfast. It was a rare moment of peace in what has been, for many years, a life lived at breakneck speeds. As all moments need to come to an end, so too did my moment of serenity. With breakfast finished, I dressed and step out into the fog-laden morning, the porch slick with moisture from the cold morning fog. Ocean Avenue stretched out into the distance as it rose up the hill. The wide street’s familiar contours were softened by the mist that floated gently around me. Carmel-By-The-Sea was just beginning to stir. Shopkeepers unlocked their doors. Early risers power walked, their dogs pulling them ever forward, stopping to sniff the occasional patch of grass or flower. There was a timeless quality to Carmel that I've always appreciated. It felt untouched by the relentless march of progress that transformed so much of coastal California, especially the Bay Area just an hour north of here. A stones throw in today’s world.

As expected, the line at the coffee shop snaked out the door. It was a patchwork mix of locals and tourists who were all united in their quest for that blessed morning cocktail of caffeine. I willingly join the queue, content to wait and observe as we slowly shuffled forward. I could have just as easily placed an order online on my phone and skipped the line. But where was the fun in that? Waiting was an experience. And I had no place in particular to run to that morning. There was a subtle art to people-watching. It was a craft that I've honed over years of travel. There was a couple just in-front of me, arguing in hushed tones over their itinerary or a morning spat that would be instantly forgotten moment they were caffeinated. There was that solo traveler nervously thumbing through their phone, scrolling on their social media portal of choice, catching up on everyone else’s lives instead of enjoying their own life right here in the present. There were also the locals who greeted each other with the easy familiarity of typical small-town life, their pilgrimage to get coffee in the morning a ritual of caffeine and a dose of daily interaction.

I heard my named being called over the loud rumble of voices in the coffee shop. I reached out and picked up order, the cappuccino warm in my hand. I thanked the barista and casually strolled back down Ocean Avenue. I moved at a snail’s pace. I took my time as I weaved between the random clumps of people who were walking up and down along the narrow sidewalk. The fog was just starting to burn off overhead as it slowly revealed peak-a-boo glimpses of the town's famous cypress trees that slowly emerged overhead. Art galleries and boutiques lined Ocean Avenue in every direction. Their windows displayed an eclectic mix of local art, high-end fashion, and kitschy souvenirs that always caught the attention of tourists, subtly luring them in to purchase a memory of their day in Carmel. Already day-trippers were filtering in to this small oasis on the Pacific Ocean, their phone cameras already clicking to capture a slice of this picturesque town. As I descend the gentle slope of Ocean Avenue, the beach slowly came into view blending with the asphalt of the parking lot. Carmel Sunset Beach was a literal postcard come-to-life. It was a giant crescent of white sand framed by wind-sculpted cypress trees. It was boarded by infinity — the vast expanse of the Pacific. The fog still lingered offshore. It gave the entire scene an ethereal quality that no Instagram filter could ever hope to replicate.

I kicked off my shoes and sunk my toes into the cool sand watching the giant waves crashing below as sea foam exploded on the shoreline. It was a simple pleasure. A soothing moment. I found a spot to sit, away from the handful of other early morning beachgoers, and cradled my coffee cup in my hands. I took slow sips, inhaling the salty, briny air that was caught on the breeze flowing over me. The waves continued to crash rhythmically against the shore. If this sound couldn’t help sooth you, you were probably dead. I loved the briny scent of the ocean. It was more pronounced here than in Southern California. Maybe it was the cold that helped make this scent more noticeable, more crisp. It seemed to perfectly pair in the breeze this morning; the salty air mixed with the earthy aroma of my coffee. It was a moment of perfection and a flavor and aroma that I wished I could bottle and carry with me no matter where I went. If I could sell this scent, I would made a fortune. The fog continued to recede west. It slowly revealed more glimpses of the coastline with every passing moment. If I squinted just right to the north, I could just make out the rugged outline of Point Lobos. It was a place that inspired so many artists and writers for so many generations. To the south, I could also just make out the Santa Lucia Mountains rising dramatically in the distance, their slopes cloaked in a patchwork of thick coastal trees.

I finished my coffee and dug into the sand with my feet, just content to sit here and watch as the beach slowly came to life around me. The sun slowly peaked through the clouds, pushing the coastal fog further out into the ocean. People from nearly everywhere began to gather on the beach to enjoy a cold, but sunny morning. A couple out for their morning walk, strolled below, hand in hand along the water's edge as they left a lingering trail of footprints in the wet sand just out of reach of the crashing waves. An owner and her dog ran back and forth across the small dunes, as she launched one tennis ball after another in the air, her Golden Doodle running and barking joyfully as it jumped into the surf and the sand, living its best life. I stretched as the sun finally burned off the last remnants of the thick morning fog and started to warm the wet sand around me. The simplest mornings were often the best ones. Whether it was a quiet breakfast prepared and enjoyed alone. A symphony of crashing waves in the distance. A stroll in the early fog. A delicious coffee enjoyed on the beach to bring your senses back into the land of the living. And the endless rhythm of the sea that was my morning companion, providing a soundtrack for me that was soothing, calming and utterly glorious.

I stood up, brushed the sand from my clothes, and took one last look at the brooding Pacific Ocean now covered in morning sunshine, before turning back towards my rented beach house. Dinner was already planned and prepaid for, but it was hours away. For now, there was a hammock in the backyard with my name on it. A hammock that was hanging empty, swaying gently in the breeze and waited patiently for me to fill it. I strolled past tourists headed down to the beach for a walk. Playful children ran past me as I side stepped their barreled momentum, turned down my street, climbed the stairs of my rental, and collapsed into the waiting strings of material of my hammock, just waiting for my weight to give it purpose. I rested there, nestled in my cotton cocoon, swaying gently in the breeze, feeling like I was floating on a pocket of air. It was my talisman against the chaos and the packed streets of Carmel as tourists flooded in for the weekend. This was my silence. My quiet moments of clarity. My time of simple, and unadulterated joy. The only sound that reverberated through the air was the crashing waves of Carmel Sunset Beach. I closed my eyes and let the white noise take over, before sleep gently rolled over me.

The sun was just setting over Carmel-By-The-Sea as I bustled around the house, getting ready for the evening dinner out. It painted the sky in hues of orange and pink that could make even the most jaded bastard stop and stare in absolute awe. You simply couldn’t look away. My friends had just arrived as I was waking up from my backyard slumber. I made a mental note to purchase a hammock from my backyard as well. It seemed to be more a “need” than a “want” after the afternoon nap that I had just experienced. We had planned this weekend for sometime. Life generally kept us all extremely busy as we all had families, business, kitchens and other responsibilities. So, we concocted a scheme. One of us would take the lead and create a plan to get us all together. Whether it was cooking together somewhere, indulging in a Michelin Star restaurant around a table, or simply getting together in wine country to do what we all did best; drink. We would rotate the responsibility around the friendship circle, each person taking the lead to make plans as we all came together to execute those plans and throughly enjoy the adventure. For this round, I had the responsibility for planning and execution. For this weekend, we were here to eat and to drink. And that, dear readers, was the best and easiest plan to make.

My motley crew of chefs and sommeliers all showed up on industry time, meaning, they were all fashionably late. These were my colleagues. These were my brothers. These were my friends. We gathered around the living room with a bottle of 1992 Ridge Monte Bello that I had decanted earlier. Generally, I was not one for wine snobbery. I've had my fair share of Two Buck Chuck in dark alleys behind restaurants. Car wine that was consumed in a parking lot as we all passed around the bottle, laughing and drinking. But this bottle of Monte Bello, this was something else entirely. A 100-point wine and one of the finest examples of classic winemaking that put California on the world map. It was the kind of bottle that made oenophiles drool and lesser sommeliers question their career choices. We poured it around the room, each of us holding our glasses like we were cradling something fragile made of spun sugar and nitroglycerin. All of us dipped our noses deep into our glasses as we inhaled the complex aromas of something truly magical. I can only imagine the look on someone's face if they walked into our kitchen right now. They would be greeted by the sight of a group of grown men, standing around in the giant circle, their noses dipped into their wine glasses, lost in deep concentration, all sniffing deeply, making exasperated noises that should not be made together in a group of men or even in a public setting.

We all took a sip together, like a bunch of synchronized swimmers just knocking one back. Dear readers, let me tell you, if you haven’t experienced a Monte Bello Cabernet, you’re in for a swift and unapologetic punch to the face. The first sip hit me like a roundhouse kick to the palate. It was a powerful symphony of flavors that, like a boxer at the first ring of the bell, just kept coming and didn’t stop for mercy. Dark fruits, tobacco, a hint of leather, and there was just something else. It was that faint echo of every "yes, chef" you could hear reverberating around the kitchen. Whatever it was, it was fucking glorious. We savored our pre-dinner sauce, letting the wine coat our tongues, our throats, and even our very souls. This aperitif was a religious experience. This bottle was pure alchemy. It had to have been pure magic, because before we even realized it, before the countless laughs and tales were shot back and forth between us, before we even knew it, the bottle was empty, our glasses were drained, and it was time to make our way to Aubergine for dinner.

We spilled out onto Ocean Avenue, a raucous group of misfits in a sea of well-heeled tourists and locals who were still lingering in town, those that decided to stay for dinner or perhaps a late departure to take in Carmel after dark. Our laughter echoed off the quaint storefronts and the private hotels. We probably scared the hell out of a few unsuspecting passersby who ran into our rowdy group. We tried to keep our commotion to a minimum, as we struggled to keep our volume down. But tonight, we were kings of the culinary world, and Carmel was our playground. We composed ourselves before we arrived at the entrance to Aubergine. After all, tonight we were dining in a restaurant that has been nominated for two James Beard Foundation awards including Best Chef, West and Outstanding Service along with carrying not one, but two Michelin Stars. It earned its second one in 2024. We therefore decided to be under our best, and least loud and disruptive behavior. We checked in at the host station and were seated with rapid elegance. We even had a quick table visit from Justin Cogley, the Executive Chef. I think that our host must have tipped him off that there were fellow chefs dining here tonight, because after his gracious welcome, he departed the table with a nod and wink, making eye contact with each of us.

In many Michelin Star restaurants, you are eased into the meal. Almost welcomed slowly. To prepare the palate for the adventure to come. Tonight we bungee jumped into the abyss instead. The first course was a welcome like no other and was appropriately called “Gifts From The Coast”. We stared at the presentation for a brief moment as the dish was a fucking work of art. It was the kind of dish that made you question whether you should eat it or turn it sideways and hang it in a gallery, or maybe in on your dining room wall. Bluefin tuna, glistened like jewels on display. The crispy nori was so crunchy that it shattered with a satisfying crunch as we hungrily chewed it. Caviar popped between our teeth, releasing briny bursts of ocean. Pacific gold oysters tasted like they'd been plucked from the sea just literally moments before we sat down at the table. But that wagyu tartar — holy shit. The tartar was like butter made of meat, if that butter had been massaged by angels and fed a diet of pure umami. The wine pairing was honestly a work of sheer genius. We had all expected a nice chardonnay. Maybe something from Bourgogne where the first sip would instantly reveal that malolactic fermentation accompanied by touches of fresh apple and lemon zest. Something light-bodied and easy-drinking. However, the pairing was completely unexpected, but absolutely welcomed by my all too wine-snobby group of misfits. The first course was paired with a glass of Sohomare 'Tuxedo - Kimoto Junmai Daiginjo' from Tochigi. The sake was incredible. It had a delicate flavor that just danced along our tongues and wrapped itself around the robust seafood that provided the landing strip. In a strange sort of way, the sake made me want to stand up and slow clap towards the kitchen. But I restrained myself. Only barely. Looking around the table, however, I could tell that every one of us had the same exact idea.

The kaluga queen caviar was simply, in a word, fucking sublime. You are looking at someone who has had their fair share of caviar. Maybe even more than my fair share. I was practically raised on it. My grandfather was known to break off hunks of thick Russian bread, smear it with butter and very generous portion of Osetra Caviar, and plunk it into my hands. He often showed pictures to all of his friends of my as I dug my tiny, chubby face into the bread and devoured the little bubbly morsels of pure heaven. This serving was a trip down memory lane and truly something extraordinary. This dish was a fermented potato cream, covered by a sheet of frozen gazpacho. And that wasn’t enough, it was topped with caviar and a cucumber salad. The tomato and potato cream was a creation that was a study in contrasts. Picture the briny pop of the caviar as it pitted itself against the smooth, velvety potato cream. Then as all of the flavors built in your mouth, suddenly, out of no where, the acidity of the tomato cut through it all like a well-honed chef's knife taking you completely by surprise. The cucumber added a fresh crunch that really just made the whole dish come together beautifully.

We were loud. There was no denying it. Thankfully, the restaurant was packed with people and plenty of conversations, so if any patron happened to look over at our group, all that they would see is a table of friends, scrunched in close together and enjoying a meal and many glasses of wine. The caviar dish was paired with a 2020 David Leclapart 'L'Amateur' Champagne, because of course they fucking did. Generally, I am slightly apprehensive drinking most champagne, even the good stuff as it seemed. And it’s not because I’d rather be drinking Two Buck Chuck straight from the bottle. I am one of those “special people” who suffers slight headaches from consuming bubbly alcohol, as do many people, not surprisingly. The headaches are actually caused because the bubbles believe it or not. Bubbles, those sweet little orbs of crispness that give champagne that sparkling bite actually contain carbon dioxide. It’s that carbon dioxide that increase the pressure in your stomach and forces the alcohol out through its lining. And, it goes straight into your bloodstream. Do not pass “Go”, do not collect on hundred dollars. The carbon dioxide also ends up competing with the oxygen in your bloodstream, which can cause some dizziness. So basically, despite not being as strong as other drinks, champagne will get you intoxicated quicker because of its bubbles. Somehow I got feeling that there would be a group of college students that would suddenly start shotgunning Asti Spumante instead of Keystone. But, all worrying aside, I decided to enjoy at least a sit of the pairing of champagne. Because, while bubbles tickled my nose and my lips with even a tiny sip, the wine's crisp acidity was in fact a perfect foil for the rich caviar.

The third course was the kinmedai, a golden eye snapper. It was a bright red fish with very large eyes due to its preference for deep waters making the meat incredibly tender and fatty. We all loved how the filet of kinmedai was prepared in a Japanese style using sizzling hot oil to make its scales ever so crunchy. The plate was covered with a chawanmushi that was flavored with Iberico ham and corn. The dish was topped off with pickled slices of summer squash, squash blossoms and seaweed, and roasted leek ash. It is always easy to overcook fish, but this fish was perfect. Every bite producing an extremely satisfying crunch. The custard was thick and savory with slight hints of ham, as the zucchini added sweetness to the entire dish. While I tend not to eat that much squash, let's just say this dish made me reconsider every negative thing I've ever said about gourds. The 2006 Dönnhoff 'Norheimer Dellchen' Riesling Spätlese Goldkapsel Auktion pairing was a stroke of genius and palate infused perfection. The riesling’s honeyed notes and razor-sharp acidity sliced through the richness of the dish like a hot samurai sword through warm tofu. It was simply perfect.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any better, the next dish was placed in front of us on the table. The scallop. But all seafood aside, what really made this dish was the shiro dashi. The broth was a umami bomb. It was deep, complex, with the sweetness of the carrot providing a perfect balance between all of the ingredients. The grilled diver scallops from Hokkaido were served over carrot-juice-infused tapioca pearls, baby carrots, herbs, an emulsion of that ridiculously delicious shiro-dashi and a carrot puree. And, just to through in a bit more caviar into the meal, steelhead roe sat atop the scallops. The dish was accompanied by a buttery brioche brushed with sea lettuce butter. This dish was rich. It intensely flavorful. The texture of the tapioca pearls actually reminded me of The French Laundry's famous oysters and pearl dish, which I have to say was one of my all time favorites. Everything about this dish was amazing. The scallops, the creamy tapioca pearls and the melange of flavors that just burst open with every bite that we took. But if all of those intense flavors weren’t enough in one dish, the real star of the dish was the sauce. It was decadently buttery, with a bit of acidity that just exploded in our mouths. I could have eaten this sauce just by itself. And, if I wasn’t in eyeshot of anyone, I would have probably picked up the plate and unceremoniously licked it. Sadly, the pairing was Krug 'Grande Cuvée - 169éme Édition’. Champagne again. Because at this point, why the fuck not? While I figured that the champagne's fine bubbles and toasty notes would probably be like a warm hug for my taste buds, I gave my glass to another volunteer at our table. He gladly grabbed my glass and said that if I didn’t drink it, that he sure as hell would.

Dear reader, I am, and forever will be, a lover of meat. Vegetarian you say? Why yes. Yes, I know the word well. And while I do eat my vegetables, I will also have you know that I would happily tear the head off of a juicy morsel of meat, all while seated in front of my dear vegetarian friends as they stare at me in sheer horror. A vegetarian I am not. Give me the meat please, and give it to me right now. It was therefore no secret that the next two dishes were probably my favorite. As they were also the favorites of everyone at the table tonight. The duck was placed in front of all of us as none of us even considered the salmon alternative dish. This table, was a table of carnivores. And let me tell you, this duck was a religious experience. The meat was cooked to perfection, its skin crispy and glistening, the flesh tender and juicy. The dry-aged duck was served with a duck jus. It was paired with a mini “crepe” filled with duck leg confit and topped with a dollop of, you guessed it, caviar. This meal was literally caviar porn. I seem to remember a salad containing frisée, bib lettuce and plums, but that’s not important at this moment. What was important, was the meaty duck. The pairing for this dish was officially not champagne. Thank fucking God! My friends all seemed to have a good laugh at my expense, and truthfully, I laughed as well. One of my chef friends actually expressed disappointment that it wasn’t champagne, because he would have gladly claimed my glass. Ah, the sacrifices that we make for gastronomy and lack of oxygen. The pairing for this dish was a delicious 2008 Pisoni 'Estate' Pinot Noir. It was so silky, so seductive that it really should have come with an NC-17 rating. In my humble opinion, duck should always be paired with a pinot. It’s the perfect combination of flavors that just seem to compliment one another in the best way possible.

After the duck, the entire table seemed to give a firm and collective sigh. The pause before the next course was not only welcomed, but it was needed. We all sat together, swirling our glasses of pinot and reminisced on all of our collective adventures together. We laughed about the struggle of cooking a full multi course meal in a San Francisco apartment the size of a postage stamp. We howled about the experience of cooking lamb on a poorly cleaned grill that nearly had us burn down the wine country inn that we rented. Note, the lamb chops came out blackened, but crispy, and incredibly delicious. And everyone managed to keep their pair of eyebrows intact that evening. Yes, no eyebrows were harmed in the misadventures of grill flambé. And while we caroused, remembered and poked fun at one another as friends who are really family often do, the special option course arrived at our tables.

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly eat another bite, the Japanese wagyu, sprinkled with rock salt and sake tamari, was served. The meat was a deep, angry red. It was marbled with fat that promised flavors that would haunt my dreams for weeks to come, if not years. And, it delivered on every single promise that it made. Each bite was magnificent. An explosion of a symphony of beefiness that could only be described as chewing a piece of heaven. It was the kind of steak that made you forget nearly every other piece of meat that you had eaten, ever. This marvel marbled miracle of meat was paired with a glass of wine that I had been waiting for. The 1988 A. Rafanelli Cabernet Sauvignon was like liquid velvet in a glass. Normally, cabernets could be explosively heavy and dry in the wrong hands of a wine maker that didn’t know how to work this particular grape. This bottle, was a masterclass of expertise and innovation. Its tannins were softened by age into something approaching near perfection. The color of the wine was striking as well. For a 1988 cabernet, you would think that it would lighten with age and lose complexity. This bottle proved that statement entirely false. The color was rich and dark. The textures and layers of cassis, blueberry and raspberry were explosive and completely enveloping. It was poetry in a glass that was written for an aria in a symphony. Maybe that description was slight overkill and oversell on my part as the entire table burst out in fits of laughter. But in the end, no one contradicted me.

As the plates from the course were cleared, we managed to finagle, but really sweet-talk our sommelier into giving us another pour of the cabernet. Clearly, it was our favorite wine of the entire pairing experience. We swirled our wines gently on the table, taking small sips and enjoying the fatty remnants of the juicy wagyu beef on our tongues. We marveled at the fact that while we all had different palates, tastes and preferences, at the end of the day we all agreed that the cabernet was absolutely our favorite. And while all tastes change throughout our lives, one decade after another, perhaps it was age, perhaps it was experience, or perhaps we just really loved the good shit. Maybe that was the most honest and simplest of answers.

We all turned to face our server as the arrangement of the desserts were brought out to our table. Clearly, many of us were full, but we all decided that we would take one for the team this evening and finish the task at hand. The arrangement was a fucking masterpiece. Three petit fours, all were served at the same time. The first petit four was a palate cleanser. A melon sorbet topped with mint and a piece of melon. It was tiny. It was sweet. It had a clean melon taste and reminded me of a cleansing sorbet. The second petit four was a mini cake filled with matcha and white chocolate ganache. This one was rich, decadent and was a small party in our mouths. The last bite was the chef’s take on traditional s'mores. It included milk chocolate, graham cracker bits and a meringue topping that tasted like a warm hug in your mouth.

Finally, the grand finale was delivered. We all stared at each other in slight disbelief. We were all thinking the same exact thing. Specifically, where we were actually going to fit the baba cake soaked in Benedictine syrup. The smell alone coming from my plate made me seriously consider converting to whatever religion worshipped this particular combination of flavors in this dessert. The white chocolate and nectarines were a match made in sugar heaven. The pistachios added a nutty crunch that created an interesting texture to the whole creation. The flavor combination was rich, decadent and made us all want to bite off the tip of the spoons. But the icing on the proverbial cake was when one of our group, who will forever remain nameless loudly announced that it was the kind of flavor combination that made you want to get slapped by your mama and thank her profusely at the same time. The final pairing for this walk through indulgence lane could only have been a glass of Domaine Dandelion 'Brun Dore' 2018. It was a dessert wine that managed to be sweet without being cloying. It had this slight acidity that seemed to cut through the richness of the dessert like a hot knife through foie gras. And before you raise an eyebrow to that description, let me tell you that this dessert was so thick, so rich, that the comparison to foie gras was made in complete perfection.

We stumbled out of Aubergine late that evening with our bellies full and our palates thoroughly blown away. As expected for this time of year, we found ourselves enveloped in the kind of fog that Carmel is famous for. The dark night was only made that much darker with the flowing marine layer, as it churned around us and pressed through the streets, obscuring the trees above us on our walk to my rented beach house. It was thick enough to cut with a knife, turning Ocean Avenue into something out of a film noir. We made our way back to the beach house as we laughed and swapped stories. Our voices echoed off the mist-shrouded buildings and against the slick sidewalk as we made our way through the nearly empty town.

Back at the house, we settled in for one last bottle. While we didn’t have any more room for food, we always had room for alcohol. And with good alcohol, you just make room and worry about it later. As no one was driving home that evening, I felt no guilt popping open a 2012 Ridge Monte Bello. I left this bottle decanted and on the counter before we left for dinner, and even now used a proper aerator as I poured it into waiting, outstretched glasses in the living room. We sat around the room, the fire place warming us up as we sipped and shared stories from our travels, exchanging memories and funny moments. Tales from the kitchen also wound their way into our conversation. Tales of burns and cuts, scars that healed and some that remained as reminders. Stories of impossible orders and even more impossible customers. Experiments on preparation. Triumphs and failures. Dishes that sang and won awards. And still other dishes that fell completely flat. We talked about the friends we'd made in our lives and the ones that we lost along the way. We reminisced about the toll that life in general took and the indescribable rewards it offered in return.

The fireplace crackled. The was bottle emptied. And we all agreed that the feeling we shared was a profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for all of the experiences and adventures. But mostly, gratitude for the acquaintances, who became friends, who then magically transformed into family. The fog outside grew thicker wrapping the house in a cocoon of wet, floating mist. Before we all headed to bed, I raised my glass for one final toast. I looked at all of my friends and made them all promise that no matter where our crazy lives took us, we'd always have nights like this to come back to. Nights that reminded us why we love to cook, why we love to travel, and why we love to experience these adventures together. Because sometimes, if you are very, very lucky, it all comes together in a perfect moment of friendship and culinary bliss.