January 29, 2009 11:17 am

How Restaurant Week Ruined My Life

New York City's Restaurant Week is an underfunded foodie's dream. I say this from experience. Ordinarily, my only opportunity to get past the foyer at Le Cirque would be on my way to work at the coat check. But during Restaurant Week, the food world becomes a plebian's oyster. Prix fixe menus at some of the city's best restaurants cost only thirty five dollars and lunch goes for a pittance at twenty seven.

So, when I received a reminder email from opentable.com a few weeks ago, I stayed on my computer feverishly attempting to make a reservation at every single restaurant on the list. Maybe the fantasies of foie gras and tuna tartare compromised my alertness. Maybe dreams of AvroKO dining rooms slowed my reflex time. Whatever the explanation, about twenty seconds after I received the email, there was hardly a single dinner reservation left. I suspect there are a lot of broke foodies in New York.

Ah, but there were a few lunch reservations still floating around cyber space. At first, I was disappointed that I missed my chance to set the bar for gluttony a little higher. But, I could not have known then that the two lunches we did confirm would so dramatically change my life.

My foray into restaurant week began at Bar Boulud last Sunday. There, surrounded by older European couples with immaculate little scarves and perfectly coifed hair, my girlfriends and I became ladies who lunch. It wasn't entirely comfortable. Transforming into a lunching lady doesn't happen overnight. At first, we were just regular people eating lunch. The distinctions were subtle, but the longer we sat (a defining characteristic of a lady who lunches), the more obvious they became. As normal people, we ordered the things that appealed to us on the menu. We gabbed. We drank complimentary tap water.

Then, our waiter brought us the wine list. Let me interrupt the story here to point out an important distinction. Regular people drink diet coke for lunch. Ice tea is acceptable. But, you may not use the word lunch as a verb unless there is wine on the table. I had a very nice glass of Russian River Valley Chardonnay that was mercifully light on the oak. Another friend ordered a crisp glass of Pinot Blanc. After the first sip, I found myself sitting a little more erect and speaking in a vaguely English accent.

Not to ring my own bell, but we relaxed into our surroundings at an impressive pace. We came to the restaurant American women from generally modest backgrounds, slightly intimidated by the overwhelming French-ness of the waiters. By the time the first course arrived, we were cooing over the delicate charcuterie and silken squash soup as if we had grown up summering at villas in Corsica. Our first lunching experience lasted a record four hours and I left the restaurant with the uncontrollable urge to buy a quilted Chanel purse. Yet, it was the next lunch that really solidified my desire to become a full time lady-who-lunches.

Park Avenue Winter is a foodie Mecca. The menu rotates every few months to reflect the seasons and, in its incarnation as winter, Chef Craig Koketsu prepares hearty, cold-weather standards like roast chicken with a piquant preserved lemon-mustard sauce. He also offers zany comfort dishes like broccoli and Cheetos. But, the restaurant's gimmick (forgive the word choice but it's the most accurate one I could come up with. For the record, it is a very good gimmick) doesn't stop there. Design scene darlings AvroKO revamp the space according to the season.

On the afternoon that we showed up to continue our lunching career (an oxymoron as ladies who lunch do not, by definition, pursue careers), the dining room displayed aspects of both a sylvan winter wonderland and a Gstaad ski lodge. While this may not sound like an intuitive combo, it was beautiful. The chairs were decked out in fur and the chandeliers dangled from the ceiling like the branches of birch trees.

One of my companions, a seasoned lunching lady at this point, sat at the bar, ordered a Dark and Stormy and proceeded to recklessly flirt with the bartender until our table was ready (aforementioned Dark and Stormy was on the house). This time, wine was no longer in question and we ordered it immediately. Our salmon tartares and porcini ravioli inspired thoughtful musings over various flavor combinations. Afterward, we lingered over desserts that made me wonder if Willy Wonka was their pastry chef. In fact, we lingered until all the other diners cleared out and the staff was getting anxious to close.

Contrary to my expectations, they remained extraordinarily gracious. I'd like to believe we exuded an air of Park Avenue princess that made them act accordingly. We paid our bill only when an unsettling glint sparkled in the custodian's eyes. He was either going to mop the floors and shut down the lights or impale one of us with a swizzle stick.
Our waiter, a consummate professional to the end, returned our credit cards and expressed his hope that we had enjoyed our meal. At this point, I felt like a caterpillar fully emerged from her cocoon. I was a lady who lunched. I smugly wondered why I hadn't realized this part of my identity earlier. My enthusiasm for the idea made me gesticulate a little too energetically and I didn't see our waiter coming up behind me. Just as he approached, I accidentally delivered a mean left hook to his right eye that almost knocked him over. He staggered back,shocked that I had just clocked him in the face. Even under these circumstances, he maintained his poise. But, I knew he saw through the facade. My experiment in lunching was officially over.

I think that I'm in a recovery phase right now. I'm also worried that lunch will never be the same. Can you really enjoy homemade tuna salad when you've tasted Daniel Boulud's beef cheek terrine? Can you sip a bottle of diet Snapple when you've drunk Pinot Gris before 3pm? How does one possibly fit lunch into a twenty-minute window when five hours feels so much more natural? These are all concerns that may take years to resolve. Until then, I'm waiting for Restaurant Week 2010.

Cecilia Estreich

Park Avenue Winter
100 East 63rd Street
(at Park Avenue)
New York, NY 10021
212.644.1900

— Written by Cecilia Estreich

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