Celebration

I know, I know; I was supposed to take the afternoon off and catch up on much-needed rest, but it was not only Papa's (Ditmar's) birthday week, but a great day to be alive in America after a long, long nightmare. So, I naturally accepted the invitation by Chris to attend his lavish lunch at Smith and Wollansky because it was a victory party, too. We dined at our usual table overlooking the fortress-like Fisher Island and watched boats dashing across Government Cut and, that was so appropriate today because we cut their balls off and were about to dine on them.

Victory is sweet and I ended the lunch with Smith's famous Apple-Browned Betty although I can truthfully report I only took a few bites of it to join in the celebration. However, before that, I agonized over my main course as the servings tend to reflect the prices and be too much and too rich. Like Mama and Papa, I chose the conservative tomato basil soup and then thought to pick another prudent dish, The Free Range Lemon Chicken; all seemed under control as Ditmar went on and on about recent parties and his father vented his lament about how the Austrians are always portrayed as Nazis when it was really the Germans.

Then, lunch arrived. Lamb, pork ribs, prime rib, and other meats were all passed out before my sensible chicken dish and for a moment I thought they forgot mine. Suddenly a dish was presented of an ENTIRE roasted chicken which dwarfed the Flinstone-size portions of the rest of the table; gasps, then laughter erupted from everyone. "Would you like me to quarter it, sir?" the waiter asked. "Please", I moaned.

So, that was the big joke of the day, through the dinner and the cocktails at the waterside bar afterward, and then all the way home. However.....



I am not the only one who has dined on whole-dish Nero-like meals. A look back into the archives finds a day when fox was on the menu for Ditmar. I never wanted to show this photo because I thought the addition of ketchup to fox to be so common. Everyone knows fox is best served in a zesty gorganzola sauce, but--as we all know--there is no accounting for taste.