Family of One Has an Interesting Experience at Eleven Madison Park

I recently had the opportunity to dine at my beloved Eleven Madison Park (which just won the James Beard Award for Best Restaurant in the United States) and was anticipating the occasion all day and in the cab ride over to the restaurant. There are so few places in our lives that truly represent a place with joy, pleasant surprises, and great affection with no stress or untoward drama and I reminded myself as I stood outside the restaurant to never take that for granted.

As I pushed the revolving door to enter the restaurant, there were two of my very favorites, Sandra and J.P., and we were laughing and screaming. I always look forward to strolling to the upper level and my usual table which is next to the marvelous high windows overlooking Madison Square Park and also overlooks the entire restaurant. There are usually a few friends for me to greet on the way and it is a great start to the evening.

But, on this night, I make the turn to the left, but J.P. keeps going straight. I try to hide my dismay. He is not only not taking me to my usual table, but the one that I call in my mind The Cinderella Table. When the restaurant expanded recently, they added a couple of tables that are in a corner with no ostensible views, particularly of the entire restaurant. From my perch at what I consider a premiere table, I would smugly glance at that table and think, “thank goodness I will never have to sit there”.

I can no longer hide my distress. J.P. tries to explain that my usual table is not in play for me tonight. He cannot clearly explain why I cannot sit at that table, but this is quickly turning into one of those moments that keep people from ever dining out alone. People are glancing up, wondering why I just don’t sit down, J.P is attempting to find me another table, friends are starting to rush over to see if I am OK, and three thoughts are going through my mind.

First, I think about how I have touted myself as a person to trust when it comes to dining alone, especially on a Saturday night. I have spent years building up advice and encouragement for friends on how to make sure to have a fabulous experience. Get to know the staff, don’t make kooky demands, show how much you enjoy the experience. . . and all of that effort has obviously gone for naught. Who am I to think that I know anything about dining alone successfully? The staff must have included me in their category of eccentric diners and tried to make a show of keeping me happy. But, now, it was time for me to take my proper place at one of the most undesirable tables. Which led me to my next thoughts.

Being in sales, I thought of the difficult customers that I stroke and cosset, all in the effort of keeping their business and how, sometimes, the moment comes when you just can’t up the pretense any more or something outside of your control happens and the customer sees that he was, merely, a customer. Now I knew how that person felt. I vowed that when I recovered my equilibrium, I would think of better ways to treat my customers so they never had to experience this sinking feeling.

The third thought that I had as a lovely table was finally set for me was “no one puts Baby in a corner” from the classic film Dirty Dancing.

Let’s face it, this is one of the top restaurants in the world, not just the United States. Why would the needs of a single diner on their busiest night of the week be of any consequence? I pondered what to do. It seemed a bit strident to just leave, even though it was going to be a long, miserable night. I decided that the best course of action was to return to the entrance and tell Sandra and J.P. that it was simply not going to be a very good night to dine there and ask them to make me a reservation at another USHG (Danny Meyer’s empire) restaurant. I sat down at the table that I had been shown to think through what I wanted to do.

By now, several of the managers had come over to talk with me, but I was getting a different explanation from each one. I decided that I needed to do a very hard thing and ask this question—is there something that I am doing or some behavior that I have exhibited that I need to correct in order to make serving me a better experience for you? While I did not expect anyone to say, “oh, yes, stop listening to your iPod, it makes us think you don’t like the course we have just served you” or some such, I did think that I would be able to read the nonverbals and get a sense of what I could do better.

Each person seemed genuinely aghast and the only constructive criticism was that I had never said that the preferred table was a deal-breaker, so no one thought it would be that horrific to give me another table. In fact, it might be seen as a welcome change. I quickly pointed out all of the tables that I would like, but not The Cinderella Table.

We all quickly fell into our familiar roles and I enjoyed a marvelous dinner with many of my favorites including the shredded pig in the shape of a Milky Way, a fabulous cheddar accompanied by light as air cheddar biscuits, and sea urchin cappuccino served in an eggshell. The wine tasting was served by a new sommelier with whom I quickly developed a wonderful rapport. At the end of the meal, the manager for my section told me that my wine pairing would be comped due to the mix-up which was a lovely gesture. I left the restaurant feeling very good.

But, still, I couldn’t put the experience behind me. I never wanted to go into a fabulous restaurant and feel that level of dismay again. So, since I am considered part of the EMP Family, I did what one is supposed to do when harboring concerns about one’s family. I called Megan Vaughn, who has to be one of the top managers in the fine dining business. I told her that it was very important that I not come across as demanding or spoiled, but that it was probably time (after 23 visits) that I let her know what was important to me. I asked that I have a captain with whom I felt comfortable and was also skilled at reading what I wanted; I asked that if I were to be given a different table, I was told at the entrance, not merely taken to the table; and I asked that the staff always feel free to tell me if I was asking too much. It was a wonderful conversation.

So, now, as I head to New York for my birthday weekend and my Saturday dinner at EMP, I look forward to it with great delight. Maybe more than usual.

Family of One Has a Conversation with Mother

Mother called recently and there was an unusual lilt in her voice.

“There was a goat at the beauty shop,” she said.

I thought that I had misunderstood.

“Yes, Miss Astorbilt (as she refers to me), there was a goat. The people who own the building also have a big farm outside Thomasville. This little goat is black instead of white like his mother and brothers, so they don’t want anything to do with him. He also has a very bad underbite. So, the people are bottle feeding him and are keeping him in the fenced yard behind the beauty shop until he grows up a bit”.

So, I queried, she saw the goat in the yard behind the beauty shop?

“If it is any of your business,” she riposted, “they brought the goat into the beauty shop so that we could see him. He was running and skipping and running and skipping all around. He tried to eat my shoe and he also ate a plant”.

She was wistful for a moment.

“He has the softest fur”.

I had not heard her this excited since she shook Vincent Price’s hand at the Sedgefield Country Club.

I immediately texted my partner in absurdity, Jason, who had a series of questions including were there not any cosmetology laws in High Point preventing goats from entering beauty shops. He also named the goat “McCullers” after Carson McCullers, a nod to both his Southern roots and my father, Carson Southern.

When I spoke to Mother the next day, she immediately began talking about the goat. I told her that Jason had some questions about the goat.

“I do not care for the tone in Jason’s questions,” she offered. “I do not think he has the goat’s best interest at heart”.

I told her we had named the goat “McCullers”.

“It is none of Jason’s business what the goat is named. Besides, the former mayor of High Point is named Roy Culler and that could be very confusing to the goat. And, he already has a name. His name is Valentino”.

I made the point that she should have told me the goat’s name before Jason so kindly thought of a name.

“I do not like your attitude or Jason’s attitude”.

In response to concern about the cosmetology laws, Mother was succinct.


“Why don’t Jason and you worry about those books you are supposed to be making?”

Discussion about McCullers dominated much of our conversations for the next week. She could hardly wait to see “McCuster”, as she begrudgingly called him, again.

After her visit to the beauty shop, she called me, completely crestfallen.

“They took the goat back to live with his family. He found a hole in the fence behind the beauty shop and they found him wandering in the parking lot.”

Her voice brightened for a moment.

“I told them that he needed some vegetables and was walking to Food Town”.

There was a long silence.

“I loved that little fellow”.

Several weeks later, a letter arrived from High Point. On lovely stationery engraved Mary Southern, there was a scrawled note from Valentino asking if he could meet me one day and sending me $43.00. There was also a murky photograph of the goat (taken down from her beautician’s mirror where it had a place of honor).

Mother has assured me that when I come to High Point, the owners have consented to bring the goat for a visit so that I can meet him.

I hope he will answer to McCullers. But, of course, it is none of my business.