Smith and Wollensky

Richard, and his spontaneity, took me to Smith and Wollensky on 3rd Ave. last night. It's a famous steakhouse with a couple spots in big cities; the kind of place I heard you needed reservations much in advance to get into (an incorrect assumption, as it turns out). I had walked past the spot several times walking to work and wondered just how much a steak ran you in a joint like that. The answer? A lot.

As of yesterday, I am officially two weeks out. Still on my mushies and liquids and not able to take more than about a cup of food at meals. Rich suggested the place for its mashed potatos, (having had his heart set on finding me potatos worthy of my palate) one of very few staples beyond protein shakes and beef broth I've had these two weeks, though out of convenience mine were usually the flaked kind from a Betty Crocker box in my pantry, not real potatos and certainly not Smith and Wollensky potatos.

The result is that my suspicions about my stomach beginning to heal, form its scar tissue around the band, and ability to take in more volume has received concrete evidence supporting the supposition. I managed a lobster tail, a few shrimp, a few bites of crab (all from the delicious, sumptuous, irresistable cold shellfish appetizer plate they served elegantly on an ice-loaded platter) and probably a half cup of the most fluffy, buttery, well-seasoned mashed potatos I had ever put in my mouth. To say my Betty Crocker flakes paled in comparison is a gross understatement. Really, it's like comparing a vintage Syrah or Cab with Arbor Mist out of the fridge, or worse yet, that wine in a box stuff (which I've never had, thank you).

I also broke the rules though, and would be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous about the consequences (they warn you after all...slippage, erosion, etc..etc...) The shellfish were obviously not blended or liquid, though they were soft; the kind of thing that goes down smooth regardless. Oh, and I chewed every bite at least 10 times before swallowing. As if that makes a difference? Who knows. Still, it felt really good to eat real food for the first time in a few weeks and I may just dream of the mashed potatos later on.

Sitting in a restaurant, a REAL restaurant...not just Olive Garden, or some diner on 2nd Avenue was a sincere treat. Smith and Wollensky's is the type of place that serves you with absolute class. The servers are men of a certain age in dinner jackets and napkins across their forearms instead of college girls or actors/actresses trying to make a few bucks for rent; the wine lists are long and detailed, and there's a certain aura in the room of elegance which straightens your back and causes you much more care with your motions, your reach from fork to mouth. There are no cocktail lists, though there is a bar, and no one will sit next to you whilst taking your order to appear more friendly and personable.

I've been to a few places like this now (Todd English's Olives at the W, that steakhouse near my office which I still strain to recall the name, and I'm sure a few others I can't recall off the top of my head), and I thankfully feel less and less out of place at them, but there's still a twinge.

I spent a few moments gazing up at the 19th Century (perhaps early 20th?) oil paintings of a stern looking man, and next to him, a woman with a furrowed brow; wondering if this would be Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or Wollensky. Sadly, no caption underneath, no plaque, nothing to betray the empty gazes of their surnames.

Richard was, of course, delighted with himself for suggesting the place for its "real" mashed potatos and wanted to order more to takeout. The gesture was endearing and sweet. A truly kind act for the benefit of me eating real food.
As I felt the calories sink in, and the dizziness lift, I managed a sincere smile.

In a few minutes I'll pull the leftovers they were only to happy to bag for me out of the office fridge and test their left-over value. Please, oh please let them be as orgasmically fulfilling as they were last night.