Lunch at the Ritz

You might think I often frequent restaurants in my leisure hours. Truth is, it would be like taking a busman’s holiday. Last Monday, however, was an exceptionally peculiar day. I was suddenly ravenous after my barber’s appointment, which was odd since I’d eaten a substantial lunch before I set out. I decided to walk to Charles Street to subdue my hunger at one of the local bistros.

On my way, I turned onto an inconspicuous side street. It was there on Hudson that I spied a tiny restaurant in the basement of a pre-Victorian building. It would have been easy to miss, tucked in as it was between the tailor and the pharmacy, had it not been for the large sign in the shape of a hand standing on the sidewalk, pointing to the eight steps that led down to an establishment called, of all things, The Ritz. Someone either had a healthy sense of humor or was not in his right mind; this place was a dive. I didn’t have high expectations for the meal, but I was so very hungry that, for once, I was beyond caring.

I descended the stairs and opened the heavy door, stepping out of the fresh cold air into a room that was small, dark, and warm. It was lit only by the odd lamp here and there, fitted with what must have been 20 watt bulbs. A restaurant critic knows that when a cheap restaurant is this poorly lit, it may not only be for the ambiance.

The room was teeming with quirky pictures and antique architectural cast-offs. An old, elaborately framed sign near the entrance read: No Dancing. It was difficult enough maneuvering the narrow path to my own table without upsetting others in my wake, let alone breaking into a jig. I’m not the rail-thin youth I used to be, far from it.

The table I was sitting at was old and in danger of collapsing, but spoke of past elegance. Its center had a beautiful inlay, framed by a thin strip of gold. Every table in the restaurant was unique; only their shared shabbiness made them all come together into a design statement of sorts. Part of one wall was fitted floor to ceiling with light switches, each with a different, old-fashioned switchplate. Across from my table, at the other end of the small room, was a door with four antique door handles, two on either side. I wondered if the other diners were similarly disoriented. Upon inspection, I discovered only one other patron sitting completely still, reading a newspaper. In fact, he was so still, I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t part of the furniture.

The odd surroundings took my attention away from my hunger for only a moment. I beckoned to the tall man standing behind the counter, whom I’d noticed on my way in. He looked ordinary enough. I asked for a menu. He explained that the chef made a few dishes daily and determined what each guest would be served. If the food was not to the customer’s liking, there was no charge. Personally, I don’t like cute. I don’t generally “go” for quirky. And I don’t much appreciate innovation for its own sake. I had half a mind to return to my original plan to walk to Charles Street. I could think of three excellent restaurants within walking distance, but my stomach was growling and I didn’t leave. The marvellous smell wafting from the direction of the kitchen helped make up my mind.

A few minutes later, the chef appeared and placed a bowl of soup in front of me. He must have known who I was, because although he didn’t say a word, he motioned to me to try the soup while he stood there smiling, anxiously anticipating my verdict.

Hard as it was to believe, the soup was outstanding, incredible, unbelievable. I didn’t know which and how many adjectives to attach to it. It tasted like nothing I’d ever eaten. Surely it had ingredients from some far-off land, ingredients as yet unknown to the western palate. I told the chef what I thought of his spectacular soup and he clasped his hands together in front of his chest and smiled like a teenager in love. He seemed to understand English, but when I inquired what kind of soup it was, he retreated back-first into his kitchen, grinning at me all the while. By this point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if his smile had remained in the room, Cheshire cat-style.

The rest of the meal continued in the same vein. The chef soon re-emerged with a delectable piece of unknown meat dressed with a sauce and some sort of wonderful glazed vegetable I’d never seen before. I couldn’t tell what I was eating, but it was the finest meal I had ever had in my twenty-three years as a restaurant critic.

There’s no point in my trying to describe the dessert. The fluted glass held a delicate syrupy thing (for lack of a better word), in which were suspended wondrously light, crunchy morsels. When I tried to ask the tall man what the dessert was made of, he provided no more information than the chef.

I can’t say I was concerned about the bill, even though I hadn’t seen the prices in advance. I had waited all my professional life for such a meal. I was shocked that they charged me no more than I would expect to pay at a modest establishment with average food. What about all the special ingredients they must have used?

I paid and continued the day’s errands, vowing to return later in the week for a second try. I make a habit of returning to the same restaurant twice and eating two complete meals. I’ll let you in on a little professional secret. When you read my columns and come across a phrase like I ordered the watercress soup and my dinner guest partook of the cream of asparagus, I am the dinner guest. I don’t know very many people, nor do I have much family. It’s been years since I gave up trying to find people to accompany me to restaurants; it’s far easier to simply go by myself and avoid the uncertainty of being turned down, or worse, stood up. I’m a good person, but … how should I put it? People just don’t “take” to me. Besides, going to an establishment twice gives me a much better idea of the place. A good review from me can make a restaurant, and a poor one can sign its death warrant. I need to be certain.

Four days after my original visit I planned to return for dinner. I’d wanted to go earlier, but I didn’t wish to appear over-anxious. I wondered if they kept to the same no-menu arrangement with the evening meal. As I approached, I saw from a distance that the hand-shaped sign wasn’t on the sidewalk. Normally, it wouldn’t occur to me that a downtown restaurant could be closed for dinner, but anything was possible with The Ritz.

When I got closer, what I saw shocked me. Not only wasn’t the sign there, the restaurant wasn’t there. No, I’m not explaining it right. I don’t mean that the restaurant had closed or gone out of business and left an empty space: the actual stairs leading down to the basement didn’t exist.

I initially assumed I was standing in front of the wrong building, or was on the wrong street, yet there was the tailor on the right, and the pharmacy on the left, just as I’d remembered them. Not even a space remained where the stairs should be.

Talking to the tailor was a mistake. He told me he’d been at the same address for 30 years, and there had never been a restaurant there named The Ritz. When I insisted I ate lunch there and it was situated beside a tailor’s shop, he seemed to think I was insane. He was actually frightened of me.

I decided to look for the restaurant the following day. I walked up and down every street in the area, asked the locals, checked all the restaurant listings I knew of, but there was no trace of The Ritz.

This was disconcerting on a number of levels. On the one hand, I don’t much like my conception of reality being turned on its head. On the other, that marvellous meal haunted me. I kept thinking about the velvety smoothness of the soup, the potent aroma of the main course, and the play of textures of the dessert. Eventually, I had to set all this aside to deal with more pressing issues. I was called to a meeting at my newspaper’s head office, where they informed me they were “letting me go”. That’s how they put it. After 23 years they’d had enough of Edward E. Cresswell. What riled me was that instead of coming out and saying that they wanted someone younger, with a less formal writing style, they went on and on about inaccuracies, and how I could use a rest. It was patronizing.

Leaving the newspaper was a bitter pill to swallow. Like many other people, my work was my life. I tried to think about what else I could do, but this only distressed me further. Instead, I resolved to concentrate on completing my last month, devoting the remaining time to revisiting restaurants I felt were especially deserving. Writing positive reviews for wonderful restaurants was a sort of going away gift of thanks to restaurants that had brought me joy.

With only one week remaining, my thoughts turned to the most deserving restaurant of them all — The Ritz. If I could only find the place, it would be the subject of my final review.

I don’t care much for cold weather, but that Friday was one of those rare December days when winter displayed its beauty. Ridiculous as it was, I decided to restart my search at the same spot from which the restaurant had disappeared. When I got there, I could see from a distance that the sign was out. I walked quickly, tempted to run to the spot before the mirage disappeared. The stairs were there, just as I’d remembered them, and down I went.

The Ritz was unchanged: the tall man was behind the counter, the same customer was reading what might have been the same newspaper. Upon entering, my first impulse was to ask for an explanation, but I decided to wait, to build up a rapport of sorts with the cook and the tall gentleman, and then make my inquiries. This time I took a table on the right, next to a small, stained-glass, rose “window” that, being below ground level, didn’t provide a view of anything.

I sat down and received another outstanding meal unlike anything I’d ever tasted. Indeed, it was nothing like the meal I’d had during my previous visit to The Ritz. When it ended, I didn’t receive a bill. I just continued to sit at the table.

Initially I thought I was just a little tired, as one gets after a good meal. Then I realized that I’d lost the will to resume my life. Who did I have waiting for me? No wife or children, not even a dog. Without my job, I really had nothing tempting me back. After a time, it just seemed best to stay.

There are four of us here now. Occasionally someone wanders in, has a meal, and leaves. It makes for a nice change. Seems to me that anyone who comes in a second time remains. There’s certainly no need to feel sorry for me. I get three unimaginably good meals a day — always new and different. What more could an out-of-work restaurant critic hope for? I don’t often think about whether it’s right or not to stay. There’s something about this place that erases troublesome thoughts from your head. And when you stop concerning yourself about what should be, you’re simply content with what is.