When you finally arrive and walk past without realizing it – “I expected it to be perched on a mountain,” a tourist tells me – you remember that, often, California’s wealth is subtle. Like the tech billionaire who shows up for dinner in jeans and flip flops, or the celebrity who lives in a quaint Venice bungalow, the exterior of the French Laundry isn’t flashy. From the street, the large dark gray house – the first level covered in ivy and drawn shades, hiding the faces of those who dine inside – is well appointed but not extravagant. The front panel is easily blocked when a limousine pulls up to drop off customers. The opulence of French Laundry is felt once inside: in the food, the wine, the service.