Delectations

There are a few restaurants in New York which are spoken of in reverent, hushed tones because of their elegance, their superlative food, their exquisite service, their indispensable reservations and their astronomical prices. Lutece, on East Fiftieth Street, is one of these temples, to which recently my husband, a woman friend and I repaired to celebrate the auspicious occasion of the publication of a book of mine. Our friend was the host, and this was to be a TREAT.

A small brownstone houses Lutece, fronted by a tiny sidewalk garden with a few tables. The downstairs front room holds a small bar, the back room is for dining and there is also a rather pleasing, rustic-looking back yard now closed because of the season. More dining rooms are to be found one flight up, a steep flight, and to one of these dining rooms, the one in the back, we were shown by a gentleman who reminded me somewhat of an updated version of George Raft. I never discovered who he was; anyhow, that was the last we had to do with him.