“Don’t write anything bad about New York Prime,” my mother warns. “I’m serious, Adam. Don’t.”
New York Prime is my parents haunt; it is their Cheers, their Casablanca. We go there every time I come home and we are treated like royalty.
“Mrs. Roberts!”
“Dr. Roberts!”
The entire room shifts with excitement. New York Prime is a scene, and my parents are a vital part of the scenery.
Tonight, though, began in our house. Grandma and grandpa came over for drinks and to hear me play the piano.
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After a rousing rendition of “I, Don Quixote” from “Man of La Mancha” we piled into the car and journeyed to that eternal beacon of my parents’ gastronomical gratification: New York Prime.
A young bombshell opened the door for us and eager hosts and hostesses led us to our table.
“Right this way, Mrs. Roberts.”
We stopped to chat with the regulars: a judge, a publisher, a supermarket baron.
Here is a look at the scene:
Finally, we sat, and were treated with one of the many perks of being a regular: a plate of olives and orange slices.
Mo–my parents’ regular waiter–came with their usual drinks. After several minutes of menu perusal, he returned to take our order.
Several interesting things happened while we waited.
A lobster was wheeled around the restaurant in a wagon:
A lounge singer sang a Neil Diamond medley:
Grandma and I traded glasses:
Soon, the appetizers arrived. I had baked shrimp with garlic, parmesan and breadcrumbs:
Then, the entrees came. I had a petit filet:
Grandpa had the sea bass:
Dad had a stone crab claw:
We all had sides of mashed sweet potatoes, creamed spinach and onion rings:
After consuming enough calories for the next several years of my life, I made my way to the bathroom. I thought this sign on the inside door was worth taking a picture of:
[For those who can’t read it, it says: “If you have any problems with our restaurant, ask for our customer service representative: Luca Brasi.”] [For those who don’t get it, that’s Godfather humor.]
Finally, for dessert, the table was treated to a surprise celebration for my grandparents’ anniversary. A gigantic chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and berries. Here’s Moe lighting the candles:
And here’s the cake itself:
And that’s it. Three gigantic meals consumed in 36 hours. Tomorrow morning I’ll be on a plane back to Atlanta, where normal calorie intake will resume. The weekend of gluttony is officially over.