Holy Moly, We Spent $400 on Dinner!

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.