Friday, February 4, 2011.
The Unexpected At Antoine's.
A couple of weeks ago Wendy Chatelain, who handles special events and marketing for Antoine's, called to ask whether I'd be interested in speaking to a group of doctors in town for a convention. They planned a black-tie dinner in the Japanese Room at Antoine's tonight. I knew that a large number of dermatologists were in town this weekend, so I worked in a few skin-related anecdotes as I thought through my presentation during the past few days. Having the dinner at Antoine's was a help. That place has enough good stories in its history that I could go on for hours about them.
As I headed for the door at home, Mary Ann looked at me funny. "Is that how you're dressing for the speech tonight?" she asked. Well, yeah--my usual jacket and tie and wing-tipped fuddy-duddy look. "Okay," she said.
Twenty minutes into my fifty-mile drive south, my cell rang. "Didn't you tell me that this was a black-tie dinner?" Mary Ann asked. No, I don't remember that, I said. "Okay," she said, and signed off.
But now I wasn't sure. I called Wendy. "Yes, it is black tie," she said. "The doctors wanted to make it a big deal. But they said that they'd pay for your tuxedo rental."
I have my own tuxedo, but now I was halfway across the lake. I called Mary Ann to beg her to deliver my suit to me. She laughed and said she was planning to come over anyway, so no problem.
I changed clothes in the radio studio after the show. Not an easy thing: windows open into all the adjacent rooms. But with the lights out, I got away with it. I told everybody I passed that the reason radio announcers didn't sound as good as in the old days was that they don't dress as I was this night.
It was rainy and cold. Approaching the Antoine's entrance, I saw my waiter Charles Carter. As he always does, he snapped to and asked where I was going, since he didn't know I was coming in tonight. I told him that Wendy asked to meet me in the Hermes Bar. It was very crowded in there. The musical act tonight was a five-man, doo-wop, close-harmony singing group. One of them recognized me and asked if I would sing a song with them. "In The Still Of The Night." I sang mostly in a falsetto. Melvin Rodrigue, the top guy at Galatoire's, happened to be in the bar and took pictures of me, evidently amused.
Wendy, on the other hand, seemed impatient with these shenanigans. "The doctors want to take some pictures with you before dinner, and they need to do it now," she told me. I heard and obeyed, and we moved through the Antoine's labyrinth--the entire restaurant seemed to be full--to the Proteus Room. And there. . .
"Surprise!" shouted two dozen very familiar faces. Dick and Lynn Brennan. David Gladden (the top guy at Martin Wine Cellar) and his wife Cathy. Kit and Billy Wohl, old friends whose apartment hosted our wedding reception. My three sisters, a nephew, and my goddaughter. Oliver and Carolyn Kluna, he the best man at my wedding. Errol and Peggy Laborde. Bonnie Warren and her son Nathan. Chef Andrea Apuzzo and his girlfriend Tia. John and Patti Poche. And, of course, Mary Ann, Jude, and Mary Leigh.
Wendy said, "And now the bad news. These people will not be paying you to speak like I said those doctors would. In fact, you're buying all of them dinner tonight!"
Mary Ann, who orchestrated this astounding event, had one more surprise. "I brought all that old wine you've been looking for a reason to open. What could be a better time than your sixtieth birthday party with all of your before-kids friends?"
What indeed? David Gladden had already done us the service of separating the really good bottles from the mediocre. Mary Ann has no idea of such things, but her idea was brilliant. There were a lot of wines here form the 1980s, when I hung out with all these people in my single years.
The night only got better, as I visited with all these folks, some of whom I haven't seen in years, most of whom I rarely dine with anymore. But that's how much life has changed since I stopped being a playboy and started being a family man.
Soufflee potatoes, oyster Foch, shrimp remoulade, crabmeat ravigote, and Taittinger Champagne circulated, and so did I. The entrees were the ones I would have chosen, because Mary Ann consulted with Charles Carter. Grilled pompano meuniere, chicken Rochambeau, filet marchand de vin. Creamed spinach. A monumental baked Alaska with candles for me to blow out.
My wine collection only includes one of everything, with more wines from the 1980s than I thought. They flowed freely, but we still only went through about half of them. With dessert, we opened a 1977 Sandeman and a 1980 Graham's port. David Gladden laughed when he saw the Graham's, because the gift he'd brought for me was a 1980 Warre's.
I made the mistake of saying within Mary Ann's earshot that this was the best night of my life, and hesitating for a second before saying "since my wedding day." I wasn't talking or thinking well. I was totally blown away by the completeness of the surprise and the thing itself. Not even the check--the biggest I've ever paid for in my life--could bring me down from this Valhalla.
Later, Mary Ann said she felt bad about not inviting our current, mostly kid-related friends and her family. We'll have another party for them Sunday at home. "Wendy solved the problem for me," Mary Ann said. "She said, 'Mary Ann, that's all the people that can fit in that room, and every other room in the restaurant is full tonight.'"
I'm still gasping. A perfect birthday.
