In a Real Fixe



By Tony Kornheiser



Sunday, November 3 1996; Page F01

The Washington Post 



Around the corner from where I work, in the lobby restaurant of the Carlton Hotel, was a

place where you could grab a nice, quick, cold buffet lunch for $9.95. So I was happy to

accept my boss George's invitation to have lunch with him and my friends Nancy and Berko

the other day. I was especially happy because George was paying. (George is notoriously

cheap, even with The Washington Post's money. He is the only sports editor I know who

tries to ship his reporters to out-of-town events by FedEx Overnight Pak.) 



None of us seemed to notice that the name of the restaurant had changed. This would have

been a valuable clue that something was awry. The new name is French: "Lespinasse." The

old name had been something like "Murray's Eat-n-Go."



But as I said, we didn't notice. I first got a sense we were in over our heads when the hostess

handed Berko a blue blazer to wear, because a jacket was required. I've been to lots of cold

buffets in my life, and some guys aren't even wearing shirts. 

As they led us to a table I didn't see any buffet -- but I did see about 45 waiters wearing

tuxedos. I laughed and said to George, "This lunch is going to cost you 150 bucks."



Before they even handed us menus I could tell George was nervous. I don't think he'd ever

been anywhere with fresh flowers before, other than a funeral. 



George was beginning to suspect that we had entered (doo-doo, doo-doo) . . . 



The Nouvelle Dining Zone. 



A waiter appeared and handed us four objects that resembled Gutenberg Bibles. They turned

out to be menus. On the left was a wine list, which appeared to be written entirely in French,

containing what I suspect were details of immense significance to connoisseurs, such as which

side of the Loire Valley the vineyards were located. (My personal requirements for wine

information requires (1) color and (2) price per half gallon.) 



On the right of this menu were the lists of appetizers, main courses and desserts. And at the

bottom were the most important words of all: 



"36.00 Prix Fixe." 



For those of you less sophisticated than I, I should point out that prix fixe is a French term

meaning "Run, George. Just get up, delicately place your napkin on the table, and flee like a

dog with the Thanksgiving turkey. Au revoir." 



George's face turned ashen as he began calculating how many people he would have to claim

he took to lunch to justify putting this bill on his expense account. He began sputtering about

how a month ago he could get a $9.95 buffet here. "Cold roast beef, lox, yesterday's cheese .

. ." he said longingly. 



Perhaps noticing George's apoplexy, the hostess came over. They began reminiscing about

the cold buffet. 



"You could keep going back," George said. 



"As often as you wanted," the hostess confirmed. 



"Can you go back here?" I asked. 



The hostess looked at me indulgently, like a nurse in St. Elizabeths. "Not today," she said.



I looked around. The restaurant was decorated in creamy yellows and whites. Some patrons

sat on upholstered couches rather than chairs. I have eaten on couches too -- but usually it's

potato chips and I have the TV clicker in my hand.



A different waiter came over and asked if we'd like a bottle of imported water for the table.



"I like tap water!" George said enthusiastically.



We ordered. I chose "quail breast and leg with root vegetables and tamarind-quail jus" for an

appetizer, and "veal medallion and glazed sweetbreads with shallot-veal reduction" for the

main course, having no idea what "tamarind-quail jus" was, or, for that matter, "shallot-veal

reduction." Nancy had salmon with "lotus seeds and red wine glaze." Berko had lamb loin

with "sauteed salsify" -- personally, I've always preferred my salsify poached -- and George

had baked Maine cod, because it was the only item on the menu he could pronounce.



As competition has increased, restaurants have been trying to outdo each other in creating

insane combinations of ingredients, the more unlikely the better. Braised salmon in root beer.

Chestnut-praline chicken. Is there anything so wrong about a simple Delmonico steak?

Maybe a potato alongside? Who came up with the idea for poached grizzly bear meat in pear

sauce?



"This lunch is costing me more than my son's orthodontia," George whined. "I am simply not

going to pay for it. I'm calling American Express, and I'm telling them I was deceived. It's like

going down into the Metro and finding you're on the Concorde!"



George's anxiety over the price was compounded by his anxiety over the time spent waiting

for the food. He'd allotted an hour for lunch, and we'd been waiting 45 minutes already, and

not even the appetizers had come. "Maybe they're confused over daylight savings," Berko

volunteered. 



George signaled the waiter. "Can we get our food? We really have to get back to work." 



This was funny because nobody else in the restaurant looked as if they'd ever worked a day

in their lives. It was filled with First Wives with elaborate hairdos, and men who appeared to

be dissolute sons of industrialists. "We're probably the only people here who aren't riding to

hounds this afternoon," I said. 



Finally the appetizers came. And they were . . . small. Beautifully presented, with swirls of

color and sauce and latticework, but . . . small. My quail was the size of a lapel pin.



"I don't think we should eat them," I said. "I think we should lacquer them and wear them as

jewelry."



When we finished the course all our silverware was replaced -- even stuff we hadn't touched.



This made Nancy nuts. "I'm afraid I used the wrong fork, and they're laughing at me in the

back, in French," Nancy said. 



Eventually, the main courses came. They, too, were beautiful. I did not recognize anything on

my plate. I felt foolish asking the waiter what I was eating -- considering I'd ordered it. 



"This is the veal shank," he said, pointing out something that looked like Big Red chewing gum

wrapped around a pimento. "And the veal loin and the sweetbreads and the kidneys -- you

get a symphony of veal." 



"And that flat thing you ate?" the waiter said. 



"Yes," I said eagerly. 



"That was the veal's feet."



George ate like his tail was on fire, and as he got up to leave, the waiter approached him

solicitously and said, "Too bad you have to run. You will come back and see us again and

stay longer next time?"



George smiled. 



"You'll never see me again, unless it's on the street." 



© Copyright 1996 The Washington Post Company