dinner with M and others (lyn)

At 7:15 my phone rings.  “Hi, are you up?”  “Of course I’m not up.”  Ignoring this response, M tells me about this phone call she just received from the mechanic who is fixing her car.  “I can’t believe he called me at 7 to tell me about my car.”  What can I say? 

M is coming to New York today.  Last week Sam (M’s son) said he needed, “those things you put over your shoes when it rains.”  “Rubbers?” she asks.  “Is that what you old people call them?  Whatever.”  It 's just the excuse she needs to drive to NY to see him.

Tonight we are meeting Sam, his girlfriend, and three close friends of Sam’s for dinner at The Palm, a total of six.  The reservation is for 8:30.

M and I arrive early.  Despite M’s protests, I ask the waiter to take a picture.  I feel compelled to say, “We are just friends.”  To which M quickly adds. “What she means is, we’re not gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay.”

By the time everyone shows up and we place our orders, it’s about 9:15.  The last to arrive is Sam’s roommate, Michael, a Wall Street slave like the rest of Sam and his male friends.  We all order the special election prix fixe of filet and lobster tail.  Except for M, we all upgrade for $5 and get “half of a 3-pound lobster.”

The portions are enormous.  Huge salads are followed by entrees, and sides of fries, asparagus, and green beans almondine.    The food is outstanding, as is the banter.  It’s fun to be among this group of young, adorable wall streeters.  The restaurant’s walls are covered in hand-painted caricatures of famous people, and not so famous people, who are (or have been) frequent diners at The Palm.  Fortuitously we are seated at a table near a drawing of a man the boys recognize.  It turns out he’s one of their English teachers from High School, in Boston.  Apparently, he’s a big fan of the restaurant.

Around 10:30, an hour after arriving, Michael gets a text saying he needs to return to his office in order to profile 175 companies.  This is not an exaggerated number.  (We later learn that soon after arriving, Michael is told he no longer has to complete this herculean project by morning; not that any human could have).

Maybe because we are beginning our meal as most are finishing theirs, or maybe because our waiters like us, but the lobsters we get look nothing like any three-pounder I've ever seen:

The pumpkin crème brûlée is excellent also.  And yes, like that old AlkaSeltzer, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”