I’m here on an IV drip after the dinner I had last night.
It was around 2 in the afternoon, Christmas Eve, when a friend emailed, would I have dinner with him? He had had a huge fight with his boyfriend and needed some company. I thought, what the hell, I could probably use some too after crying all day over the looming loss of Carmela, the basset hound, that’s coming like a freight train the beginning of next week.
My friend is very lavish by nature…wealthy, oozing swank from every pore, so where do we go but the very ritzy Four Seasons Restaurant known for its overblown opulence. It’s a good thing I wore my best black dress since the rest of me was quite out of practice posh wise, to say the least.
The place is huge, like an airplane hangar, not the best venue for my ears. If possible, I would have taken them off and stashed them at the coat check.
I sat through several courses of the richest food I may have ever had, assaulted by the inane cacophony of the entitled rich…observing, in earnest, wondering what it could be like to be so insulated, for lack of a better insult.
My date who knows no edit, ordered like a sultan my stomach turning somersaults unable to speak out in protest.
Maryland Crabmeat Cakes, Fettuccine with White Truffles, Grilled Octopus and Butter Lettuce Salad with Gargonzola and Curried Granola.
Dover sole, Wild Bore…I mean Boar Bolognese, Crisp Farmhouse Duck (for two)…Braised Shrimp the size of beach balls all presented like an elaborate sideshow.
When Pancetta-Wrapped Loin of Venison was mentioned, I put my high heel down.
Reindeer? It’s Christmas Eve…are you fucking kidding me?
There’s no way we’re having Blitzen as a main course.
I asked for lemon sorbet before teetering off to the ladies room. When I came back, the Captain, Oh Captain, was lighting something not akin to the sherbert I ordered.
“Live a little,” my date suggested with a wink.
“Do Tums come with that?”
Toss in enough red wine to wash an elephant, to steal a line from Truman Capote, and I’m not exactly at my very best today.
Could one’s arteries block, you think, in one such over-the-top sitting?
Will you excuse me while I Google gout?
SB
