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.
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