Going 4 for 5 at the Plate

Monday

‘Maybe I need glasses,” said the Reluctant Gourmet. “I’m sure I must need glasses. I’d swear that it says, right here on the menu, that a dish of ice cream costs $12.”

“It does,” I said.

The RG winced. He looked around the gilded garden, with its modern art, its flowers, its koi (carp) swimming merrily around. He looked up, past the tall heaters, beyond the tented top, to the moon hanging in the sky. He sipped his Evian. “I wonder how much this water costs,” he murmured to himself.

I was happy to enlighten him. “Ten dollars a bottle.”

We had come to Michael’s because, after nine years, they have just inaugurated a new menu. I was the restaurant’s first fan--in fact I ate the very first meal that they served--and I was curious about the changes. Besides, I thought the RG would be pleased to be taken out in such style. I should have known better.

The RG glared around the garden. He pointed at the well-dressed diners sitting all around us. “Who are these people?” he wanted to know.

“Millionaires,” I replied. Owner Michael McCarty claimed in a recent interview that 95% of his clientele fall into the millionaire category.

The RG shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he said. Now he was picking at a tiny green salad. “The rich didn’t get rich by spending $14 for a puny plate of greens.”

“It’s a wonderful salad,” I said, savoring the delicate balance of the extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

“It is,” said the RG succinctly, “a salad for fools.”

He was equally unimpressed with the $16 plate of pasta. “Would it hurt them,” he asked, picking disdainfully through bits of prosciutto, tomatoes and baby peas, “to throw a few extra strands of spaghetti on the plate?” He devoured the creamy pasta in three easy bites.

“You’ll like the steak,” I soothed. I was wrong. “$32 for this?” he cried when a plate containing a huge heap of French fries and a very meager piece of meat was put before him. He speared the meat on his fork and held it up for inspection. “Look how thin it is,” he pouted. “Look how small it is.”

“Yes,” I said. “And look how well-done it is. Didn’t you order it medium rare?” He had. “Cooking it right wouldn’t make this mediocre piece of meat taste one bit better,” he said, refusing to return it to the kitchen.

I offered to give him some of my squab, but he wasn’t interested. I couldn’t blame him: it came in a cloying sauce surrounded by golden raspberries, and even the slice of foie gras on the side didn’t do much to bring out the elusively liverish flavor of the bird.

“I’ll fill up on dessert,” said the RG, sarcastically predicting that something called “Heath Bar” would be just that. “I wouldn’t put it past them to bring me a candy bar on a plate,” he said. “After all, it only costs $9. Do you think they’ll remove the wrapper?”

In fact it was a slice of cake--a rather hefty slice of cake--with layers of toffee and chocolate. For myself, I couldn’t resist ordering the ice cream. I wanted to know what a $12 dish of ice cream tasted like. This one had pecans and chunks of chocolate in it. It tasted like . . . ice cream.

Then the bill came. What with the Evian, a couple of $4 glasses of soda water, cappuccinos at $5 and an 18% service charge, the total was pretty amazing. $168. Before tax--and without a drop of alcohol.

The RG marched out. He noticed that there were diners who seemed to be enjoying themselves. “I don’t get it,” he said, real puzzlement in his voice. “I could never be rich enough to enjoy spending that kind of money for a meal. Doesn’t spending $12 for ice cream make them feel bad?”

Michael’s, 1147 3rd St., Santa Monica, (213) 451-0843.

Tuesday

Our dinner at Michael’s had been such a flop that I decided to spend the rest of theweek trying to make it up to the RG. And that is why we found ourselves dining at Yanks with a bunch of old-time union organizers. They swapped war stories while they chowed down on huge plates of fried onion rings ($3.50) and hefty Caesar salads ($7). The waitress was perky and pleasant, the room had a homey feeling, and the portions were enormous.

“This,” said the RG, “is more like it.” He ate a chunk of meat loaf ($12.50) and devoured the buttery mashed potatoes that came with it. The union guys looked wistfully at my plate of ribs ($15.50), but these days they’re all under doctors’ orders, so they dutifully ordered halibut ($16.50). The fish was moist and tender and generously served, but halibut’s not my idea of excitement; it’s about as bland as fish can be. I stuck to my ribs.

The RG ordered a brownie topped with ice cream ($4.75) for dessert; it was so big that it went around the table a couple of times before it was finally finished off. He looked happy. “This,” he said, “is my idea of a restaurant. It’s not the world’s greatest food, but the prices are reasonable and you walk out the door feeling glad that you came.”

Yanks, 262 S. Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills. (213) 859-2657.

Wednesday

The RG has always considered The Grill his kind of restaurant too. Still, with his current animosity toward high-priced places, I wondered if he would change his tune. I decided to find out.

Blissfully oblivious to my trick, he strode happily into the room. He slid into one of the booths and hunkered down. The waiter brought menus, and the RG scanned the prices without comment. All he said was, “Have you noticed that this is one of the only restaurants in town that has older waiters? Have you noticed how well they do their jobs?” He slathered a slice of sourdough bread with butter and waited for my answer.

In fact, he has a point. The waiters here are the real thing; they don’t tell you their names or their life stories. They do manage to make you feel as if their sole purpose for living is to make sure that you enjoy your meal. Ask what’s good and they’ll give you a straight answer.

The RG doesn’t have to ask. He loves the crab Louis. “This $17.50 salad might be expensive,” he said when the waiter brought out the mountain of lettuce topped with fresh cracked crab, “but you really feel like you’re getting your money’s worth.” He poured on the rich dressing, which is served in a boat on the side, and proceeded to eat it all. This is no mean feat. Meanwhile I cheerfully ate the best swordfish I’ve had in a while, and topped off dinner with wonderful rice pudding.

“This meal wasn’t exactly a bargain,” I said as we paid the bill. “The swordfish was $23.50. The rice pudding was $3.50. The glass of soda water was $1.75.”

“That’s not the point,” he replied. “I don’t mind restaurants being expensive, as long as you don’t feel like you’re getting ripped off.”

The Grill, 9560 Dayton Way, Beverly Hills. (213) 276-0615.

Thursday

Walking into Rondo used to be a shock. You braced yourself for the clamor and then you shouted all evening. This time we found ourselves walking into a quiet, restful space. Twice as big as it used to be, the new room is dominated by an incongruously romantic painting of buffalo that somehow makes a joke of all the hard edges. “It feels nice in here,” said the RG.

“Nice” is a good description of Rondo. Meals begin with a puffy ball of rosemary bread that is snatched from the wood-burning oven as you sit down. We ate the thin-walled, addictively delicious thing in a matter of seconds. Then we had minestrone (it was homey and satisfying; it cost $5), followed by whole grilled fish ($18) that was served with roast potatoes and string beans. All around us people were eating plates of pasta, thin slices of steak, more grilled fish.

“You know what I like about this restaurant?” asked the RG. “It doesn’t stretch too hard. It feels like a little restaurant in Italy, a place that serves simple food that’s more satisfying than fancy. It’s comfortable.”

Rondo, 7966 Melrose Ave., Los Angeles. (213) 655-8158.

Friday

“Forget about food,” said the RG. “It’s the end of the week and today we’re eating ice cream. But wait until you taste this stuff.”

I was surprised; I hadn’t heard the RG get excited about ice cream since a little place called Eiger disappeared from a mini mall in West Los Angeles. “This is just as good,” he promised.

I found it hard to believe. Eiger was owned by a former nurse who set out to make the best ice cream she possibly could. It was fabulous. The chocolate was pitch-black, dense and intense, and the various flavors--Bailey’s Irish Cream, a candy-filled cappuccino, various concoctions filled with real fruit and real nuts--were exotic and delicious. “Just wait,” said the RG, pulling up in front of a new and anonymous-looking shop.

The chocolate looked suspiciously dark. The vanilla looked creamy and inviting. There were home-made cookies, exotic flavors--even a line of homemade frozen yogurt. I noticed that they had fruit freezes made of whipped fruit--with no sugar and no milk. But it wasn’t until I looked at the name of the non-dairy ice cream that I caught on. It was called “Tof-Eiger.”

“This is their new shop,” said the RG, ordering a scoop of French chocolate. “Have anything you want. Have as much as you want. You’ll have to order a lot before it costs $12.”

Eiger Ice Cream, 124 S. Barrington Place, Brentwood. (213) 471-6955.