Letter from Utah: Part 11 of 12

This post is part 11 in a series of 12. You can download the entire essay by clicking here, or you can read the serial installments as they appear.

Back in Salt Lake City, I decide that I’ve had enough of cheap motels with bad restaurants, with beds that sag in the center. I beg Kip to look into the Peery Hotel, which opened in 1910 and retains much of its original charm. Surprisingly, they are affordable and have a room available—which is tiny, about as big as my bedroom back in New York, but with fabulous antique fixtures and the biggest, most lovely bed, which we sink into immediately. The concierge recommends a few restaurants, and I ask him to make a reservation at Metropolitan, a New American joint that has earned some of the best reviews in town. One of the more negative reviews of the place listed on CitySearch says it offers “expensive, small-portioned eye-candy.” This sounds divine. Metropolitan is also, according to reviews on the site—granted not the most reputable resource—constantly being picketed for continuing to serve foie gras despite being “informed about” it. Admittedly, something remotely Marie Antoinette about me loves the idea of feasting on foie while the little people shriek with disgust out on the sidewalk—though there are no protestors when we arrive.

Our waiter there is gay—of course. (Of course?) He does a bit of that thing that some gay men do, flirting because you’re gay and he’s gay and somehow that’s supposed to bring you closer together, even though you’re just trying to order a martini—which is a bit gay in itself, I suppose. Alcohol in Utah is regulated, but you can have a drink if you fall within the rules. The rules have to do with the amount of liquor, the time of day, what you do or do not have to eat, and other peculiar limitations. (There are private clubs, however, for members who pay a nominal fee, or for tourists who buy a temporary membership, where one can drink all you like while sitting at the bar.)

This means that when my martini does arrive, it’s half full—only one ounce of vodka measured exactly can go into a cocktail. (In New York, martinis are often filled to the lip of the glass, dripping liquor down across your fingers.) But this one is balanced well and tastes fantastic. They pamper us with cottage cheese rolls, and an amuse bouche that I don’t even remember. We have a roasted pear soup with fig and walnuts; a grilled Caesar salad with tomato confit and parmesan crostini; then the entrées: scallops as big as your head served with braised endive and pomegranate, and a superb loin of elk with Lyonnaise potatoes, wild mushrooms and a port demi. For dessert, we have a pumpkin soufflé and a cranberry cheesecake with orange clove sorbet, which was not at all like the cheesecake you’re thinking of, more pudding/ice cream than cake. Everything has big, big flavors; everything is fantastic.

This, after having eaten in one lousy restaurant after another all throughout the state. Every hideous salad bar, every strange side dish, and every “camper’s breakfast special;” it was all worth it to have a quiet, delicious dinner, with candles and peppermint tea and my boyfriend.