I enter the restaurant of my choice tonight, Morton’s, and leave the noxious smells of the street behind There are dozens of people waiting already, but I’m not too worried. A hostess, as well as dozens of delicious smells greets me. The smells are an augur of the wonders to come. The hostess asks if I am alone, and I reply to the affirmative. Without looking up from her clipboard, she informs me wearily that the wait will be as long as forty-five minutes. I nod agreeably, but she doesn’t see because her head is still ducked close to the clipboard. She asks for my name, and when I give it, she perks up. Immediately, she reaches for a menu and tells me that she’s sure she can find something for me. I smile, thanking her for her consideration.
She leads me through a bevy of tables. The sight of succulent steak and palatable mashed potatoes with sautéed asparagus assaults me. Morton’s has some of the finest gourmet cuisine in the United States. Fresh dough for rolls is flown in everyday from Texas. Morton’s employs only the best chefs. The beef these chefs use is not just any meat; it comes from the finest meatpackers in Chicago. After this premium beef is procured it is aged for a period of two weeks, allowing it time to become naturally tender.
Needless to say, Morton’s is famous for its incredible steaks, and I cannot wait to get one bite into my watering mouth. The head chef himself leaves his station in the kitchen to welcome me, and to my delight, he does not come alone. He rolls a cart along with him, which has a beautiful display of raw, crimson steak. I let my eyes rove over the selection before choosing one that is the perfect thickness with the right amount of marbling. The chef murmurs his assent before rolling the cart back to the kitchen.
As I wait for my steak, I munch on a warm roll and sip icy water. As I watch the waitresses go back and forth from the kitchen with steak after juicy, dripping steak, I can hardly stand it. The scents issuing forth from the kitchen are divine. I am about to stand up from my seat and burst into the kitchen when a waiter appears. He carries with him a tray, and on the tray? My filet mignon, cooked to perfection, mashed red potatoes with butter, and those wonderful asparagus. I am in heaven.
Slowly, I torture myself further by carefully cutting a small piece of steak away from the rest. I impale this piece on my fork and carefully bring it toward my mouth. I can feel it in my mouth, though it is not there. I can feel the juice running down my throat. I can feel the warmth of the steak and the release of flavor mixing with my saliva.
The steak is almost in my mouth, when out of nowhere, my mother appears. She stands next to me, her hands on her hips, and cries, “What are you doing still here? Get out of bed!” Confused, I look around, but Morton’s is melting away. The smells and the steak I was about to enjoy are now gone, replaced by the drab colors of my room. It was a wonderful dream all the same, I suppose. I smile to myself as I catch a whiff of that warm steak.
