April 9, 2008

Puttin' On the Ritz

When my son Jason, who turned 33 on April 3, asked us to come up to the City for dinner on his birthday, we were delighted. He's hard to shop for, so we welcomed the opportunity to treat him to a meal in lieu of the usual well-intentioned but slightly off gift.

He made the reservation for 7:00 at an unnamed restaurant, saying only that it was a "nicer" place. "Nicer" is code for "no jeans."

We put on our business casual duds and drove upstream to his place on Pennsylvania Street.

When he and his roommate Ryan were ready, we set off, Jason driving my car because it has a backseat, and Ryan navigating by Googling his iPhone.

We arrived (where else?) at the top of a hill and pulled in for valet parking. As we got out, Jason said to us, "Just so you know, this is my treat." I started to argue about how it was his birthday, but Keeper quickly hushed me. "Just say thank you, Mary," he said.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

Then I noticed the doormen. The limousines. The 6-foot tall flower arrangement. We were at the Ritz-Carlton.

Arriving at the dining room (It's actually called "The Dining Room") we were greeted warmly and shown to our table. Our coats were taken away, our pillows fluffed (or removed, at our preference) and we were asked if we desired water. Unbeknownst to me, the answer was not a simple yes or no. It was: tap water, mineral water, sparkling water, French water… and on and on. In a kind of reverse snobbery, I ordered tap water.

Our tap water arrived in crystal glasses with paper-thin slices of lemon, along with a "surprise" from the chef: a tiny spinach pastry.

It was time to read the menu. My son was making recommendations and using words like "reduction," "infusion," and "compote." I was struck dumb. Was this the same child who had a screaming fit at Wendy's when he was 6 years old because his hamburger was square?

Our dining experience began in earnest with Champagne, chosen from the five varieties they had on ice. Then it was appetizers for the men (I sampled Jason's duck and Ryan's Kobe beef but passed on Keeper's asparagus soup with caviar.)

Between courses, the chef had another "surprise" for us-a spoonful of sea urchin in a martini glass. Jason declared it "gelatinous."

After consultation with the sommelier, Jason chose a nice red wine for the table. My child, the one who once lived on cherry Kool-Aid, appeared to have extensive knowledge of vineyards, varietals, and vintages.

When our entrees arrived, Jason whispered, "Watch this. They do synchronized serving." It was true. Two waiters, on opposite sides of the table, swooped in from the left at exactly the same moment in a showy yet unobtrusive ballet.

Our ribeye with lobster claws ("Our version of Surf 'n' Turf," the waiter joked) was so far removed from Sizzler that you wouldn't believe it was the same species. The flavor was understated but exquisite in the way that only wildly expensive food can be. Did I mention how artistically it was arranged?

Did we care for dessert? Chocolate swooped in from the left. And just in case we had one centimeter of room left, the waiter offered us sweets from the kitchen in the form of hand-dipped chocolates and "lollies" tied up in gold ribbon.

We had spent two and a half hours eating, drinking and laughing. It was the best meal I've ever had.

The bill arrived and Jason and Ryan did some secret calculations. I heard them whisper an amount that would feed me and Keeper for a week. And that was just the tip.

When we were ready to leave, our chairs were pulled out for us, and as if by magic, our coats were waiting for us and our car was on its way.

On the way back to our regular lives, Keeper and I wrote our own Mastercard commercial:

Rib eye with lobster claws, $47. Black Forest cake, $14. Being treated to a fancy schmancy dinner by your grown-up son? Priceless.

___________________________________________________