AH, WRETCHED EXCESS

A whole weekend of it, in fact.

I guess I should be glad that we’ve arrived at that point in our lives where celebrating those “big” birthdays gets to be a really big deal. You know what I mean by “big” birthdays – those are the ones with a zero at the end. And they’re a big deal because we don’t any of us know how many of them we have left.

Two of our friends celebrated these “majors” this weekend, and so we had plenty of celebrating to deal with.

First up, on Friday, was Number Fifty for a lovely lady to whom I will refer as Mrs. “After-Dinner” Mintz. “After-Dinner” himself had contrived to surprise his missus by inviting about fifty close relatives and good friends to a top-tier steak house. Somehow, despite the Brady Bunch magnitude of their combined families, sons-in-law to be, and miscellaneous hangers-on, the secret managed to stay bottled up until Mrs. M. arrived at the restaurant for what she thought was going to be an intimate family dinner. Hah.

This was an evening at which the good feelings were out in force and were reinforced by the good food. As we entered the private room at the restaurant, we were offered adult beverages (my choice: 12-year-old Macallan single malt Scotch whisky) and confronted an imposing array of serious cheeses. And what cheeses! Constant Bliss. Gabriel-Coulet. Piedmon Sheep. St. Mauré. And a nice, runny Epoisses Berhaut that put me in mind of a classic Gahan Wilson cartoon in which a frantic diner is about to be engulfed by a majorly overripe chunk of fromage: “Waiter! This Brie is totally out of control!”

I wasn’t about to gripe about the cheese course preceding the dinner instead of following it, no, no. And what a dinner. A nice New York strip, done Pittsburgh style, medium-rare. Charred on the outside, pink shading to deep red on the inside, a good 1½ inches thick, sizzling in garlic butter. The sides – buttery mashed potatoes, monstrously thick onion rings, creamed spinach aromatic with nutmeg – as good as they were, they were just so much lily-gilding. I managed to eat only half my steak, washed down by lashings of Merlot. You know, Merlot: the finest cholesterol solvent in the world. I hope.

Dessert consisted of strong coffee made in a filter press, accompanied by something called a “Chocolate Sin Cake.” And, baby, this sin was mortal.

I don’t know what it is about chocolate that impels people to grasp for metaphors of evil and death when describing it. “Chocolate Decadence.” “Chocolate Sin.” “The Great Chocolate Flood of 1886.” Maybe it’s that Puritanical streak most Americans grew up with, in which anything that is too pleasurable carries the whiff of damnation or debauchery with it. Whatever. I suspect the French, cheese-eating surrender monkeys they may be, are unfamiliar with this affliction. With them, it’s “Chocolate Dessert That Is So Good That After You Eat It, You No Longer Desire To Make Love With The Lady Next Door Who Undresses With The Window Open.”

This cake was like that. I allowed myself two forkfuls before pushing it away. For once, a restaurant dessert that lived up to the promise of its glossy ganache covering.

That was Friday. On Saturday, our good friend G.F. celebrated his sixtieth birthday. Twenty for the third time. He and wife JoAnn hosted the party – no surprise this time – at our house.

We’ve known G.F. and JoAnn for a long time, and so this celebration was a real treat. G’s three daughters all showed up (including the one from Philly), along with one son-in-law, two grandkids (including the one from Philly), a couple of brothers, some cousins – hell, even his Mom showed up. JoAnn’s daughter was there, as well as JoAnn’s first husband and his wife. [Amazing: exes who actually get along with one another. It can happen!] A small army of G’s golf buddies, co-workers, and synagogue powers-that-be. Almost everyone who was invited showed up, and everyone had a blast.

A select consortium of us, along with G’s three daughters, chipped in to buy G a hot air balloon ride, something She Who Must Be Obeyed had determined from many conversations was high on his list of Things I Want To Do Before I Take The Big Dirt Nap. And G was extremely pleased with his gift... but the biggest pleasure in his eyes that whole evening was from seeing his kids and grandkids. Especially little Josh, his two-year-old grandson. Grandpa was grinning so much, his face must’ve hurt.

A mob of people. More excellent food and drink. Beef tenderloin. Hot crab and shrimp dip. Two slabs of salmon. And more. And more. Grubbalicious!

This morning, digestive tracts still packed, we all piled into our cars for a drive to the North Georgia mountains for some antiquing (suitable activity for us... er, ahh, antiques) and apple-festivaling. Turns out we missed the apple festival proper by at least a week (thanks, Mr. Internet!). But all was not lost, as our trip was punctuated by one of those family-style lunches at The Smith House (Dahlonega) in which the food is carted in by the trough. Fried chicken. Pot roast. Creamed corn. Fried okra. Sweet potatoes. Green beans. Collards. Corn bread. Sweet tea. Somebody stop me!

And as if all that were not enough, upon our return from the mountains we met some out-of-town friends for an early dinner at one of our local dining spots. Yet more food. By now, soup and salad was all She Who Must Be Obeyed and I could handle.

After a whole weekend of wretched excess, all I can say is this:

Do not – I repeat, do not – order the Cream of Brussels Sprout Soup. Because “repeat” is exactly what you’ll get.