Panic sets in as I read and reread the menu: Pan Roasted Lamb Loin, Four Story Hill Farm Veal Sweetbreads, Roasted Venison with Organic Vegetable Ragout, Pan Seared Maine Halibut Filet. I am a picky eater, but I can usually count on some representation of beef, chicken, or—as a last resort—hen, for people like me. Not so on this night at the Dining Room, the restaurant inside the Ritz-Carlton located in Atlanta’s platinum-card mecca, Buckhead.
The per-person price for a three-course dinner is $82, and if I want the Kobe Beef Tenderloin with Vidalia Onion Purée, there’s a $92 surcharge.
So, I’m panicking. I try to conceal my anxiety from my husband, Jason. I picked this restaurant—knowing the total bill would be as much as a car payment—in an attempt to break a pattern of visiting purportedly fantastic restaurants on what turn out to be off nights. We don’t splurge on fine dining often, and we don’t have sophisticated palates.
The greater the splurge, the higher our expectations. Basically, we want a fun time and a memorable meal. Is that too much to ask?
I thought the Dining Room would be a sure thing. I didn’t want to have to choke down my entrée.
For an appetizer, I settle on Chanterelle Mushroom Risotto, Pan Roasted Quail Breast, and Rose Creek Rosemary Jus. I figure I can eat around the bird if I don’t like it. For dessert (the one place on the menu where everything screams “Order me!”), I go for the Chocolate Souffle ‘Oreo’ with Vanilla Ganache and Milk Sorbet. How could I not? And for the entrée, I take a chance with the Tagliatelli Pasta with Speck Ham, Watercress, Fresh Summer Truffles, and Port Wine-Truffle Sauce.
Jason orders an oyster-themed appetizer, the halibut, and a “Cuban Chocolate Tart with Chocolate Sorbet.” Our waiter absorbs our choices. He says he’ll send over a woman to talk to us about wine.
Jason and I know nothing about wine except that we prefer red to white. He apologizes to our stunning sommelier for pairing red wine with fish. “My husband does the same thing,” she says, putting us at ease.
We have narrowed our choices to two Pinots in the $50 range. Our sommelier says she knows the man behind one of our choices. She heaps on the praise before nudging us toward option two, saying her friend’s wine may be too intense.
She brings the wine and asks which one of us is going to taste. “I’ll do it,” Jason says. “I can tell the difference between Diet Coke and Coke Zero.”
The wine is strong and grapey, a surprise given the light color and the hint from the expert that it would be milder than our other choice. Jason and I suck down the first glass, and the waiter appears to pour us a second.
A server brings two pats of butter, salted and unsalted. We each get a slice of bread that looks like a piece of pound cake. We get a tiny, scrumptious pre-appetizer of crabmeat and … tomato … maybe?
The decor in the Dining Room is (as its name, location, and price point portend) old-world, conservative, and stodgy. We sit on soft, upholstered seats. The hostess pulls out the table for us and slides it back once we’re seated, trying not to nudge our feet.
Behind Jason is a rooster carved from dark wood. On the wall in front of me are several oil paintings. Two are of horses. The one in the middle is of dogs, purebred and dignified. As I study the dog painting, while sipping my second glass of wine, I see the faces of Petey and Albany, the mutts we left at home. I look away.
Jason’s glass is empty. “Do you think I can pour my own?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
As soon as he starts to pour, a waiter rushes over. “I feel guilty,” he says, taking possession of the bottle.
“I’m Catholic,” Jason says. “I know all about guilt.”
When the server leaves, Jason asks me to predict when the staff will make a fuss over our anniversary. “I didn’t tell them it’s our anniversary,” I said. I learned my lesson a couple of years ago, when I disclosed that information at another restaurant. Instead of getting to choose desserts from the menu, we got a complimentary “house specialty,” delivered with embarrassing fanfare, including a sparkler. Jason would rather testify at a mob trial than relive that scenario.
He gives me a surely-you-jest look. “Oh believe me, they know.”
“Well, I didn’t tell them.”
Sure, I told the woman when I made the reservation for our room on the fifteenth floor. Hotels always have a deal for special occasions. “But I didn’t tell the restaurant,” I say.
Jason bets $500 that the staff will mention our anniversary before the meal is out. We shake on it.
My appetizer is a winner. I even eat most of the quail. Jason is disappointed in the Kumamoto Oysters with Pickled Fennel Migonette, Fennel Espuma, and Caviar. He expected a sampler platter, but instead, the dish comes in six tiny cups, each containing an oyster at the bottom, topped with a substance Jason likens to shaving cream, and caviar. While the oysters and the caviar are divine, he can’t get past the white foam between them.
I consider what a bummer it would be if the restaurant curse continues for Jason and me. I drink more Pinot.
When we take the first bite of our entrées, all our reservations depart. We give each other a look that says, “Oh, yeah.” The curse has been lifted.
Jason says his halibut is like a steak. He declares it the best fish he’s ever had. My pasta is swimming in an extraordinarily rich truffle sauce. The sweetness is offset by the saltiness of the ham. Oh Lordy, it’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. I clean my plate.
When our practically licked-clean dishes are whisked away, a server brings sorbet to prep our palates for the next course. Nice touch.
Our waiter, one of several who have taken care of us without being smothering, asks if we want to wait a few minutes for dessert. Sure.
We’ve been studying the dessert cart, piled high with bite-size chocolates, mini flan, and some sort of lollipops. We hear a waiter at a nearby table describing peanut brittle. It appears we get to shop from the cart after we finish our dessert ordered from the menu.
A party walks in front of our table, led by a white-haired gentleman wearing faded overalls over a pressed white shirt and a red bow tie. Hmmm … looks like the jacket-required rule can be overlooked.
Just as this thought is settling in my brain, a member of the staff comes over. His heavy accent, combined with the blurring effect of wine (preceded by a cocktail and a glass of champagne at check-in—really!), makes it hard for me to follow his words. I realize he’s talking about the gentleman in the bow tie. He’s telling us the man is a farmer from Ohio, and one of the restaurant’s suppliers. “What do you buy from him?” Jason asks.
Miniature vegetables, we’re told. The staff member—maybe he’s the mâitre d’?—and Jason banter some more. I look around at the other patrons in the Dining Room, which (surprisingly) has several unoccupied tables. Most are older, rich-looking couples and groups of elegantly dressed women. This is not a first-date kind of place, or even a one-year anniversary place. It’s our fifth anniversary. Speaking of which …
“Happy anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. Ghezzi,” our waiter says as he places my dessert in front of me. Jetting out of the milk sorbet are four thin chocolate planks. One of them reads: “Happy Anniversary.”
I look at Jason, who just raises his eyebrows. I hate it when he’s right!
Our desserts are, without question, the most amazing we have ever had. And we always order dessert. In the center of my warm chocolate soufflé is a thick vanilla cream. Jason’s chocolate tart is so intensely chocolate there is no way to eat it but slowly. Jason gives the coffee four stars and requests a refill, knowing the caffeine will steal a night’s sleep.
From the dessert cart, I choose chocolate marshmallows dusted in cocoa. Jason gets the flan. Mmmmmmm …
As we get up to leave, several staff members gather around to see us off. We assure them the meal was wonderful. We each get a green package. Inside, we’re told, is banana bread made by the chef—a breakfast treat. I’m given a menu in a glassine envelope, “to remember us.” Everyone wishes us a happy anniversary.
All told, the bill comes to $336.21—over $400, including tip. The meal costs $100 more than our hotel room.
When the waiter drops a check of this magnitude, it’s important to play it cool. You smile. You calculate the tip, at least twenty-five percent in a place like this. You sign as fast as you can, and push it away. You try to put the total out of your mind.
But you don’t put the chocolate soufflé or the port-wine truffle sauce out of your mind. Ever.
