Thursday: The Dinner from Well....

After the mishaps with my hotel, and after dieting for more than a month - to little effect, I'm afraid - I decided to treat myself to a nice dinner, solitary, perhaps, but I hoped satisfying. The hotel dining room had looked promising and it was too hot outside for restaurant exploration. The restaurant was also billed as a night club, which should have been an initial warning of danger ahead. The ceiling was laced with industrial grids from which were suspended theater lights, intermingled with those round industrial, platter-shaped lights with very dim bulbs. Off on one wall, there were two bordello-like rooms, with Turkish-shaped doorways and lined inside with red velvet. I could imagine a refined, but not so nice, English gentleman inside urging a damsel in distress to "drink some Madiera, my dear," while he twisted his moustache. Despite the surroundings, the menu looked promising and after a gin and tonic, which always makes one feel better, I settled on a tenderloin of beef - medium rare, please - with pureed squash and a tomato garni. How could one go wrong? It was so easy. Expecting a thin slice of tenderloin that would melt like buttah, I got instead an overcooked steak so tough I had to saw at it to get through to the plate, and chewing it foretold lockjaw. The tomato garni was a tasteless plum tomato, unripe and barely warm, with a less than dime-sized thin slice of Parmesan melted on top. The squash was good and I made that my dinner, giving up totally on the rest. After taking, and delivering my order, my waitress disappeared as though ashamed of her product. I was eager to escape to my room but even though I tried to catch the eye of other waitresses who also ignored me completely, I waited for over 20 minutes before I could get anyone's attention. Never liking to complain about food - you get an ugly reputation and begin to lose your dinner friends - I was going to just let the meal pass, sign the chit and slink away. But when she finally appeared, my waitress asked me hot is was and if I had enjoyed my dinner. I hesitated, but since she asked, I told her. As kindly as I could, I showed her that even with my steak knife, I couldn't cut the meat. She also hesitated, and took my plate and said she'd talk to her manager. Feeling immediately guilty, I said it didn't matter; just bring me the check. But she summoned the manager who apologized and offered me a complimentary dessert. Not one to turn down sugar, especially when I've denied myself its soporific pleasures for so long, I accepted, and selected a chocolate brownie with ice cream. I thought this would be safe. After all, Howard Johnson perfected that formula years ago. I waited. And I waited. And waited. My waitress disappeared again. Even the manager seemed to have evaporated. And as it grew darker outside, the room descended into a gloom so dense I could hardly see to make these notes, feeling a little like Frank Bruni scribbling secretly away at his coming review of Le Cirque. When the dessert came, it was a real production (which is why I guess it took so long). On the left side of a recessed rectangular plate was a miniscule scoop of vanilla ice cream perched precariously on a chocolate chip cookie a la Famous Amos. The ice cream was wearing a tuille of chocolate, wound up in the air like a waterslide and dusted with a powdered sugar dandruff. But wait! On the right side of the plate was a mound of chocolate cake shaped like a Turkish hamman, sprinkled on top with chopped pistachio nuts. When I cut into the hammam, molten chocolate erupted all over the plate, drowning everything. I ate it all, including the mint leaves on the side. And then trundled off to bed. What a day! From the sublime to the ridiculous. Or, depending on your point of view, the other way around. Stay tuned.