So, let’s assume you are in Cincinnati, on Saturday night, and you’re going to have dinner with an old friend to celebrate his birthday. Before you do anything else, climb into the Tardis and crank it back a week so that you can get a reservation at Orchids at Palm Court! When you return to the current time, you may need to check your chronostatus because the restaurant looks very Art Deco and incredibly brand new. Until some heathen takes out a cell phone and disrupts the seamless continuity of glass, gleaming brass and polished wood, the feeling of stepping back into a (much) better mannered era of elegance and anticipation could be confused with an actual timetrip. Fortunately, we didn’t need the Tardis because we had reservations made by the birthday celebrant’s thoughtful spouse. Upon arrival, we were escorted to a spacious table, set with the good silver and crystal. Not a hatchling in sight – this is clearly a very grownup place. Milady, upon later reflection, thought it was similar to dining at Peacock Alley at the Waldorf in Manhattan, but I think it’s better. While Art Deco décor predominates in both rooms, the warmth of Orchids makes it a far more comfortable venue.

Our friend and his personal preferences are clearly familiar to Charles, who seemed to be acting as maitre d’hotel, sommelier and waiter. A bottle of sparkling wine (tucked where I was I was unable to confirm it was Champagne champagne, but it was magnificently crisp and bubbly) arrived, glasses were filled, and the first toast of the evening drunk to the health of the party’s cause. A brief discussion with Charles ensued, and hearing our preference for red over white, a superb bottle of 2010 Chinon appeared shortly thereafter. I can fall in love with a restaurant with a great wine list and knowledgeable staff to present it, and sipping away at the Chinon I was on my way.

Charles recited the specials, and each sounded more intriguing than the next. As we were deciding which delicacies were most worthy of our attentions, amuses-bouches of tuna crudo were delivered and immediately brought discussions to a screeching halt while they were devoured. In a salute to our home, Milady and I shared the wonderful Hudson Valley Foie Gras served with whipped strawberry and rhubarb on tiny little johnnycakes. Just thinking about how rich it was makes me think the French are right about maintaining one’s own liver in good condition – if only to be able to enjoy such a treat over and over and over again.

Second courses arrived. Several members of the party, including Milady, ordered the morels, which arrived in a wonderful cognac-scented cream concoction with oyster and shitake mushrooms as well. The fungi were woodsy, chewy and utterly decadent. Being different (honestly now, how many green-breasted pink dragons do you know?) I chose the bleu cheese beignets. My French-English dictionary misinterpreted beignet as “doughnut”, entirely missing the essence. The morsels of warm, melted, and very piquant bleu cheese gently swaddled in wrapper halfway between phyllo dough and a brioche were exquisite.

(You may pause here for a palate cleansing sorbet and a sip of something bracing – then continue on to the main course, I would.)

The entree I chose was Lamb Milanese, and I’m glad I did. My understanding of “milanese” is a chop, pounded thin, breaded and then fried. I have nothing against it- provided the chop couldn’t get to the table without considerable culinary assistance. This version was a boneless round of lamb, tender without suffering the indignation of being beaten to death, dusted with a barely noticeable crust of what were presumably breadcrumbs (though I suspect pretzels may have been employed because bread is rarely that crisp) and cooked in some unspecified manner. The result is magnificent. Crisp and tender while retaining its essential lambiness – Shari Lewis probably wouldn’t have approved, but a dedicated omnivore like me can’t resist.

No meal is complete without dessert – but most desserts, even at great restaurants are variations on a theme. Orchids is different. The menu said “cheesecake” and I passed. Milady, on the other talon, adores cheesecake, and ordered it. Herewith, I admit to one of my exceptionally rare mistakes. But I’m not entirely to blame – the menu clearly said “cheescake” but it wasn’t – it was a cloud with cheesecake nuances; a sublime metaphorical cheesecake with an existence more in intent than actuality; a cheesecake that defies the laws of gravity. (Got the idea? It was really light and delicious.)

Cincinnati? My kind of town – with my kind of food.