This past weekend, we were supposed to go on an evening cruise around Manhattan, courtesy of the company that Mike is currently working for. But he forgot to RSVP them a few weeks before the cruise, an oversight that probably had something to do with the fact that the cruise was scheduled for the same day that we'd be putting our Jesse on the plane to go back to Texas. He didn't expect to be very happy that day, and doubted he'd be in the sort of lighthearted mood a party requires. So to take our minds off of the sudden lack in our lives, we booked a room in a nice hotel in Manhattan and reserved a table in a restaurant offering a six-course French meal, something Americans call a 'tasting menu' and which the French call 'dinner'.

Getting Jesse and her friend Holly onto the plane was not painless. I faithfully kept all of my confirmation numbers for all the flights I booked with Jet Blue this summer, hoping to make use of their express kiosk check-in service, but it didn't matter. The automated kiosks never recognize the numbers I give so, once again, I found myself wanting to kill something as I stood in the one-hour queue to get to the service desk. And then there was a half-hour queue in another line to get the visitor's pass I'd need to escort the girls to their gate, where they were due to get an 'unaccompanied minor service'. Jet Blue's staff didn't think to tell me that I was supposed to wait with the girls at the designated gate. Thinking that even these young ladies couldn't screw up walking to the gate not ten feet from their hulking selves (Jesse, anyway, is getting quite tall), I left them fifteen minutes before departure. Two minutes from departure, when I was solidly outside the security area, I got a panicky call from Jesse, saying that the attendant would not accept her and Holly onto the flight, not without me to sign the papers I'd never been told about. I knew that the security line was running at least 30 minutes at the time, so I indulged my own thoughts of panic while the attendant changed her mind and decided to let the girls through anyway. Panic over: now, what else can go wrong?

We navigated the subway to a station about six blocks from The Alex, where we were booked to stay. Emerging onto East 52nd street, we realized what a glorious day it was: low seventies with a pleasant breeze. Cheered, we walked to East 45th, mainly along 3rd Avenue, and were delighted to discover that there were plenty of modestly priced eateries and ethnic restaurants and diners.

We checked into the hotel. The concierge uttered those magic words: "free upgrade". Excited, we took the elevator to the 30th floor (Mike, er, "treated" me to a brief lecture on queueing theory, a subject I've had to be familiar with in my former life as a computer programmer but he seems excessively inspired by the subject). We stepped into our room and there it was:

Not only had we been upgraded from a single-room accomomdation to a two-room suite, we had a wonderful view of the Chrysler building, a true beauty. From another window we could see the East River, which I can never think of without remembering the penultimate scene in Rear Window, when the detective announces that the villain is going to take them on a tour of the river, to show off the various spots where he dumped various pieces of his dismembered wife.

And the hotel room was nice, too, even though the decor was all Swedish modern and 50 shades of taupe. I'm not complaining. In fact, it was almost a shame that the too-gorgeous weather was crying out for a long and slow stroll around as much of Manhattan as we had the energy to cover. We left the soooo comfortable room and gorgeous view and started with a lunch across the street at the appropriately named Comfort Diner. I had a hot pulled-pork sub on typically delicious, not-too-crusty local bread. Then I took Mike to see Grand Central station and the Rockefeller center and the Chrysler Building's interior, taking snaps all the way.

So where are these pictures? Well that's when the other thing happened, as in the 'what else can go wrong now'? We had our walk, made it back to the hotel. I had a delicious bath (the Wee Cottage has an ancient 50s American-style tub, meaning it's just big enough to drown a rubber duckie) and we headed out again for another quick walk to the East River. Then it was off in the taxi to the restaurant, the Fleur de Sel, which would exceed every expectation. Returning to the apartment after dinner, I wanted to take another photo of the now gloriously lit-up Chrysler building. But where's the camera? Mike kindly called the restaurant but it wasn't there. I tore the rooms apart, several times, but there was nothing for it. It was gone. I hate screwing up like that. Like my mother, I'm a little too inclined to declare Black Depression at the tiniest set-back, especially where money is concerned. As cameras go, this was a nice, but quite modest little Casio. But it was a Ken Rockwell recommendation and it suited me perfectly. In a somewhat gloomy mood, all I could do was plop on the bed and watch The Fugitive again. I was sure we'd fall asleep, but Mike had never seen it and it's pretty hard to be bored by one of the better Harrison Ford movies. We amazed ourselves by staying up way past out bedtimes.

The dinner at The Fleur de Sel had been unforgettable. My palette is hardly what you'd call educated, but I can appreciate when a dish has layers of flavors. And being a cook, I can sense the effort that goes into not only preparing food of this caliber but in finding and nurturing sources for the very finest of ingredients. I'd forgotten how the very best multi-course dinner, despite being multi-course, should still have the feeling of a symphony and should suggest a conductor behind it all, in this case the conductor being chef Cyril Renard (whom I'd never heard of and suspect is just another chef in a city of very talented chefs). The flavors, as they should have been at this level of play, were related to each other across the courses. Citrus was the theme, with a very light use of tomato flavors.

When we stepped into the restaurant, a tiny crack in the wall, we suspected we were in good hands. We arrived a little early, but the table was already waiting, a good clue to the restaurant's expectation that the table would not be turned. There would be no pressure. We could just sit back and enjoy. The menu at Fleur de Sel is appropriately small and the 'tasting menu' offered very limited choices indeed, but what choices! The first course was dubbed a 'liquid canape'. It was a chilled soup, served in a large shot glass, and was a flawless puree of liquids and tastes: cucumber, orange, a slight hint of tomato, and strawberry. And there was a hint of lightly toasted, but not burnt, garlic. I would never attempt to make something that had to be so perfect in each element. The soup was served with a sprightly rose from Provence.

The next course, paired with the same rose, was a lovely little lobster salad, again with bits of orange, and served with watercress and slivers of avocado, in a light, orangey vinaigrette. It was perfect, and perhaps a little old-fashioned, in that it reminded me of the days of nouvelle cuisine, a super-light kind of cooking. Perhaps, like bell-bottoms and those wretched hip-huggers that overly upholstered American girls are spilling out of these days, nouvelle cuisine is back?

We chatted a bit. We waited with bated breath for the next course and were duly gratified that the wait staff, unlike staff in snobby restaurants we'd been to before, did not prattle on about the chef's personality and preferences for this and that. The waitress seemed to be aware that for most people a meal like this is a rare event. She didn't fawn and she didn't condescend. It was all I could do to keep from leaving her my email address, in case she wanted to, you know, talk or read my blog.

Mike and I yakked and waited for more, thrilled to our bones. Mike gave up on queueing theory and moved on to the Russians. A duck croquette appeared, served with an Alsatian pinot blanc that I just loved. Although all the pairings had been great (at least to me) until now, this was the first one where the food and wine seemed to modulate each other. Instead of eagerly expecting the next course, I was a little sad to see this one pass so quickly.

The next course was a monkfish served with baby vegetables so perfect I didn't recognize them, so unused am I to a perfect baby vegetable. I finally came to realize that it was baby fennel with the monkfish, but fennel where the licorice flavor was quite muted (for which I was grateful). The sauce featured a re-appearance of orange and grapefruit. The fish, served with a Pouilly Fuisse that Mike wanted to go out and buy a case of, was followed by a lamb loin that was absolutely courageous, or it would be in Texas. The lamb was quite rare, as it should be when it's this flawless, and served with a Californian pinot noir that the protagonist in Sideways might have envied. This is a hard concept for some diners to get their heads around, but a truly great meal is not always a question of what you prefer. Sometimes food, especially meat of such a superb quality you can't even buy it privately, is a question of what is right. It would have been an offense to god and nature for the chef to have cooked that lamb any longer. As it was, the meat almost melted on the tongue. The dish was bathed in a citrus sabayon with pearl onions.

I really am going to become a vegetarian. One day.

I have prattled on too long about this meal, but it really was my own Babette's Feast (I can't believe it took me 20 years to finally see that movie; I can't believe my gall in telling you that you have to see it if you want to remain my friend). Yes, there was a cheese course next, with perfect American cheeses that reminded me of how cheese is really a local product and how it's better to have a great local cheese than one from far away, especiallly one that's sat on an airplane for who knows how long. The dessert, an orange-and-cream sorbet in my case and a chocolate and raspberry tart in Mike's case, was lovely, the equal of all before it. We left the restaurant in the highest of spirits. Maybe it was on the cab that followed that I left the camera.

The next morning, we finally got around to visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I'd heard that the museum was Really Big and that the wise visitor will focus on no more than a couple collections at a time. We decided to stick with the European Art wing and then the American Art wing. The decision was no sooner firmly and decisively made than it was dropped. We could not just walk past the classical and Egyptian antiquities section. No one could. Unless they lived here and could favor themselves with such sights whenever they liked. I ask you, how many ladies look this good without their heads?

And how's this for a bathtub? It's actually a sarcophagus but if you ask me, it's too good for dead people and would make a fine water feature.

After tooling around the Met for a few happy hours, we found a place to eat pizza (in New York, this is not hard. It's hard to do it only once a day). We collected our things from The Alex and headed home, for what is my last week in the Wee Cottage. Highs in the low 70s and that is music to this Texan's diminishing hearing.