A little while ago, I had a bad dream in which I was invited to eat at Peter Luger's Steakhouse, in Brooklyn, NY. It was my first visit, as I would seldom if ever pay that kind of $$$s for a meal there. But in this dream, someone else was paying. I found myself, fully suited and cravatted, in company with friends and friends of friends. Some of the latter were very rude diners, going so far as to reach across the table, to sample morsels using their fingers. On top of that, the obsequious waiter would suggest side dishes, but they sometimes wouldn't ever arrive. I ordered a side of sauteed spinach (FOOL! I can make that at home.) and it never came.
(Click on photo for an enlarged view.)
But the worst moment was when the dining companion next to me hastily got up to take a cell phone call or something. In doing so, he disarranged the chairs, and in the momentary confusion, the waiter came and cleared our plates. I could see my unfinished steak over on a sideboard. I cried out; "Don't let him take it away!", but in moment, it was too late. It was gone. (I could describe its grain and texture, and the degree of doneness. I'd been pleased that it hadn't been pre-sliced. I'd just begun to get a sense of its savor.)
I got the captain's attention after a bit, and haltingly explained what had happened. He listened sympathetically, but with a thread of skepticism. He asked me which cut of meat I'd been eating, and he might be able to replace it. I was so consternated, that I couldn't tell him. He gave me a menu, and despite several scans of the list of steak offerings, I couldn't remember. My credibility was fading fast. I despaired of ever finishing that famed steak.
My dining companions scattered, to return to their corporate endeavors, and I was left holding a couple of cellophane-wrapped peppermint candies.
After this post, I shall be banned from Peter Luger's for life. Ni modo.