My client is very wealthy and likes to flaunt it, so when she and her husband hosted a cocktail party at their suite at the Ritz tower on the beach I knew I had to make an appearance if I wanted to keep her as a client. In addition, I reasoned , that this would probably be the first and only time I ever set foot in a Ritz Carlton. “Besides,” I told my partner as we drove over, “I’m sure they’ll have some good hors d’oeuvres.” Neither of us had had lunch and we were famished.
It was raining when we arrived at the hotel, which meant we would have to valet park the car. We pulled up to the valet, a filthy Nissan in a sea of sparkling Infiniti’s, and the attendant greeted us. “The employee entrance is around back,” he said. My partner and I looked at each other. “I am not an employee,” I said evenly.
The valet’s smile wavered just a bit and a little light bulb appeared above his head. “Oh,” he said. “Are you a guest?” I assured him I was. “Really?” he asked incredulously. As we made our way into the lobby, I saw him dust off my drivers’ seat before he pulled away.
The suite was nice in a bland, WASP-y kind of way. It was obviously decorated by the kind of designer who believes that you simply cannot have too much white. The view from the 14th floor was stunning, but mainly we were stunned at what was being served: cheap white wine in tiny plastic cups, and little bowls of honey roasted peanuts.
“Is it wrong to expect ‘cocktails’ at a cocktail party?” I asked rhetorically. “I’ll bet those nuts came from little bags that said ‘Delta’” said my partner. “So much for ‘puttin’ on the Ritz,’” I said.
I was about to say more, but my client came to greet us. “Welcome to our humble home!” she said grandly; she took me by both hands and air-kissed me on both cheeks, saying “mwah” each time before moving on to my partner.
Her husband was behind her; I extended my hand to him but he air-kissed me too, and then planted air-kisses on my partner’s cheeks too. We made the most banal of small talk and as my client prepared to move on she said, “Please, you must join us for dinner.” She told me they had reservations at a restaurant down the street and before I could decline she shook her finger in my face: “No excuses,” she said waggishly, “we’ll see you at 7,” and she swept away.
My partner and I had heard of this restaurant, of course; we had heard that the prices are staggering and that the portions are tiny. “I don’t want to go,” he said, “they’re going to serve tiny food on little plates and I’m hungry.”
“We have to go,” I said, “besides, we’ll probably never eat in a 5-star restaurant again.”
There were 12 of us at dinner; our hostess ordered wine for the table, and appetizers, and we each ordered our own entrée from a menu where, sure enough, the prices were obscene. But the food really was outstanding although the servings were miniscule. My partner looked morosely at his entree: 3 pieces of calamari on a bed of arugula with a cherry tomato. “Let’s go to the Olive Garden,” he whispered and I nodded, speechless.
Eventually dinner was over, and when the bill was presented to our hostess, we were calculating how much longer we had to remain. Our hostess was doing some calculations of her own: She looked at the bill and smiled expansively at her guests. “Dutch treat?” she said.