Please consider not reading. This will only be of interest to a few.

We received the call twelve hours before we were to leave on a trip. One of the world's best restaurants was closing - our restaurant - the only one left in the city, and one of the few left in the world where service levels were unparalleled.

We had been dining there for some fifteen years together, roughly six times a year. It was really the only restaurant in the city that knew how to use truffles (the black ones) in a recipe - the truffle spaghettini being their signature dish - her favourite dish. It wasn't just her favourite dish. It was her all-time every-time always-will-be-favourite dish that she'd tell me was better than sex (yes, beaten out by a fungus). The person on the other end of the phone line was telling us they had decided to close in two weeks - roughly two years earlier than we had anticipated.

We had known they would be closing. The restaurant was based in The Four Seasons Hotel - and in the home city of the parent company at that. Wanting a standard bearer in that city, the chain decided to build a new hotel. The belief was that people no longer wanted ultra-expensive food with exceptional personal service. They instead want somewhat less expensive food in a more flashy over-the-top setting, and simply didn't value (or know to value) personal service. They decided the new hotel would have instead a branch of a well known established American (blech) restaurant, absolutely great for visiting Hollywood stars to dine at and even more great yet for the locals who would be discussing which of those stars had been eating there. Perfect.

In other words, it was no longer a place to be seen - and that, apparently, is more important than anything else to too many. We were known there not because of who we are, but because we were there and were regulars. They made it their business to know us. We knew each and every waiter. We knew the chef. All the regulars knew them.

It didn't matter that it was still very highly rated. It didn't matter that those that knew, knew to dine there. It didn't matter anymore that amongst those that did dine there regularly were names like "Eaton" or "Thomson". It was closing and was closing a couple of years earlier than expected.

And sadly, now, it was closing on the day we were to return. In shock, we made a reservation for what would be the last seating of this institution.

You'll think I'm bein overly melodramatic. I'm sure I am. But I sincerely believe you can't easily replace such a thing when you lose it - it feels like such a step backward for the city. (Yes, embarrasingly so.)

There are theories that the end was in sight the moment they hired their current chef. She certainly didn't arrive with the credentials of her famous predecessors. But I can't pretend to claim I saw any drop in quality. There are theories that the recession killed the restaurant, like so many others in the industry. But the small restaurant always seemed full or mostly full to me.

We flew back, raced home, changed from jeans to dress clothes, feeling like we were going to a funeral. We arrived at the restaurant and we immediately realized it was going to be a funeral. We were thanked by the Maitre d' for joining them on this sad occasion. We were seated, and for the first time, weren't given menus. Instead the Matire d' "took the liberty" of sitting down with us at our table (the same table we sat down to each and every time we dined there).

He acknowledged how we must be feeling and expressed, on behalf of the company their regret that the day had come. He informed us that all of the staff would be taken care of if they so wanted to continue to work.

Some wouldn't want to continue work. Some - actually - were retired - but stayed on just because it was the thing to do. To each and every employee I believe it was more than just a place of employment with them. Each of them knew they had been a part of something grand - and so very few get to be a part of something grand.

Our waiter for the evening joined us at the table, also sitting down with us. It was the practice that evening. It would have been an unspeakable crime to have done so as little as 4 weeks earlier. And now, it was an absolutely precious moment of sin we shared. I was such a delicious moment of formal sorrow. We talked about his future - which was to finally really retire - after all, he had technically retired some 6 years earlier. He had never worked in another restaurant - and he wasn't about to at the age of 71. He told us he'd be okay. You could hear in his voice how not okay he was. I told them I wished them well, but I thought the decision wrong.

The two of them left us, but we were joined, moments later by the bread waiter. Bread there was special. How many times had I said that I could just come for the bread and wine? He, too, joined us at the table. He informed us he'd been offered a position at The Studio Cafe - many of them had - but he wanted to take some time off to decide. It seemed rather unseemly to him to accept a position and treat it like employment - even if it was with the same employer. We'd hear that theme several times more that night.

Two glasses of wine were brought to our table - 25 year old Pomerol Chateau Le Pin. They knew my what would impress me - either through memory or tremendous organizational skill - and yes, I was impressed.

Our waiter brought me my usual simple salad - and brought her a small nest of spaghettini topped with the largest truffle shard I have ever seen. We hadn't ordered this - they just knew. They knew the very odour of truffles repulses me, yet is her favourite dish to eat in the entire world.

It became obvious there would be no menus this evening.

Occasionally, one of the other waiters would stop by and join us at our table, again taking a seat. There was a kind of pain in every moment. The chef - good luck, Laurie - made an appearance to ask me if I wanted my tenderloin cooked as usual. She too took a seat, but couldn't stay too long out of the kitchen.

Two more glasses of wine - this time Chateau Cheval Blanc - were brought to us to wash down our main courses. I'm really not sure there is food that can do such wine justice. And truthfully, it was hard to eat anyway.

But we did try. We talked to the staff. People from various other tables would every now and then get up to greet someone at another table. We all smiled those smiles people use at funerals.

The evening ended with lemon souffle - an item removed from their menus some 10 years earlier - and some calvados.

I asked to see the limoges porcelain box that had been retired some years earlier. In past years it had been tradtion for the waiter to come to your table at the end of the meal with the large box, and allow you to choose a chocolate or white chocolate truffle out of it - an amusing touch playing on the restaurant's name.

Our waiter told us it was in a back room - and he would bring it out - but had to warn us - tell us the full story of what had happened to it. It was a prized possession of the owners of the hotel chain - and one evening, it was dropped. It shattered into many pieces. Someone had painstakingly glued and taped it together - but it was still very much a mess. Did we still want to see it? Yes - of course we did - and yes, it was a mess - a jumbled, taped-up, pathetic, absolutely delightful mess. Everyone remembered it and everyone paid their respects.

It seemed wrong to leave. But I didn't start breathing properly again until I had.

Gosh, that must have been very traumatic for you. I hope you are able to continue with your lives after this. Perhaps counseling might help.

Has anyone suggested putting you on a suicide watch? Do you think you will ever eat out again?

Jack

I don't know what to say in reply to this. But I would've absolutely drawn the line at the bread waiter sitting down at the table.

This is a joke, right? I almost fell for it, too. At first I thought you were really a weird fucker with all sorts of phobias and personality deprivations and character flaws. But then I thought...nah, this is a joke. Nobody in their right mind does stuff like that.

I'm uprating your post. It takes real balls to risk being thought a cultural psychopath. Good work.

Jack

Cincinnati had a single Mobil five-star restaurant for over thirty years. Its owners finally closed it when our downtown no longer attracted enough people to support it. I was not a regular but dined there on a number of occasions. There are lots of other good places to eat in the city but nothing else even comes close to what an evening there was like. Any restaurant can serve delicious food but it is a rare one indeed that can provide a truly great meal -- because, as your post notes so well, there is so much more to that experience than merely chewing and swallowing.

My wife and I have also been regulars at a few other simpler but nice restaurants over the years and this too adds a different dimension to dining out.

To lose the combination in one reastaurant would be hard indeed and even harder for others to understands unless we ever experienced something even vaguely like it for ourselves. Thanks for this.

I opened the post anyway... and I'm very glad I did.

Beautiful.

Silver Crown on Richmond. RIP Sammy.

I felt the same way when my foreskin was removed. "You know Doc, I was kind of attached to that thing."

A bottomless basket, too. Is it Nobu coming in?

Very nice post. Not always, but often, "snob appeal" actually signifies "philistine contempt".

Some of the responses to your top post provoke a reaction in me that (if you don't push the analogy too hard) have a vague kinship with the sentiments (well-expressed) in it.

Imagine a cocktail party--a largish one. You wander around, stopping at various times to listen to or chat with this or that small group of people; friends, aquaintances, colleagues, strangers, as the case may be. In some of the cases you know some or all of the people in the group, in other cases you don't know, or barely know, any of the people conversing. As you pass near, or stop to join, any particular group, you hear the person speaking at the moment on this or that topic. The topic doesn't interest you, although the people in that group find it interesting enough. You move on, and don't feel at all compelled to share with the group that you find the topic of the moment boring.

You stop by another group. You know a couple of the people, they are having a mildly interesting conversation on a topic that you know a bit about. You chat for a bit and move on. You pass another group, someone you barely know and defintely don't care to know is saying something really stupid. You have a thought of telling him and the group exactly how stupid he is, but it's just a thought that crosses your mind; you never seriously consider saying it out loud.

For some reason, I imagine the possibility of BOTF being sort of like that, while being resigned to the fact that it never will be. I can readily understand why that wouldn't happen certain topics (politics, religion, etc), but I can't help feeling a wistful sense that a tone of civility could, in some world, be expected to prevail when the topic at hand is as non-controversial as valuing excellent service and high quality. The analogy isn't exact, but there is a mild irony in the fact that the reaction to your post provokes the same reaction in my that the post expresses: a wistful but resigned feeling that something once valued no longer will be. (Anology strained, perhaps, because you are mourning the passing of something that was, while I am wishing that attitudes that prevailed in other contexts could prevail here.)

Anyway, nice post.

Me - Le Petit Cafe.

Different budget - same sentiment.

Back in the day, they had a prix fixe of $9.95 for your salad, escargots and entree.

Part of the fun of BOTF has always been the clash of opinions. Our friend Kira has certainly enjoyed his share of conflicts and arguments. Those who have made fun of his enjoyment of a top-line restaurant are only getting even for the times when Kira has skewered their predilections for fried twinkies and Pabst Blue Ribbon. For instance, I happen to know that Jack was stricken nearly to his grave when Burger King stopped serving the Enormous Omelet sandwich, and Pumpkin Seed mourned for weeks when Bennigan's went under, since he could no longer enjoy his delectable Monte Cristo (a ham-and-cheese sandwich, breaded and deep fried, rolled in powdered sugar, and served with a side of jelly for dippin'--Yum!). Kira's a big boy (although clearly not as big as Jack or Punkin') and can take care of himself.

Talk about LOL.

I'm sitting here shaking my head at all the newbies who don't have a freakin idea of what this post is actually about, or more precisely, what long-ago prior post of TQM's this post actually relates to.

take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, you ignorant moron.

Boy, that was fun. Make sure and reply, so I can do it again.

More seriously, I partly agree with you. I alluded to the fact that certain topics sort of call for a more spirited kind of discussion. I didn't mention, but could have, that some top posts are written specifically to invite confrontation. So, yeah, there's a balance there, somewhere. (I also didn't write my post trying to defend KA, in fact some of his past responses occurred to me as I wrote it. You're also right that he doesn't need any help; he's as capable as any poster here.)

But for some posts, and this was one, I just have this crazy wish that people could respond in the same spirit as the post, or just walk on by.

Don't worry, it doesn't keep me up at night. I recognize that (as I've seen you say before) the freedom of anonymity adds an element to online discussions that can be missing from real-life conversations. But that is just to say that, just as KA or others can recognize some of the factors that combine to result in the loss of a valued experience (and maybe even appreciate that a few of those factors bring with them other positives); so I and others have noted that people use anonymity in online discussions in ways that are regretable too.