Tru 'Dat

Sultan and I celebrated 12 years of wedded bliss Friday September 5th. Ironically, we share this anniversary with my parents who have been married 39 years. (They either really love each other or realize, "What the fuck else am I gonna do now that my cash and prizes are shriveled? Might as well tough it out another 39 years!" Just kidding, Mom and Dad. I will assume there is still some remaining passion, like the day I was home from college and I walked in on you, hungover as shit, to a frightening visual. Noooooooooooooooo!!!! I am still in therapy, thank you very much.)

My great friend, Allison, graciously offered to take both kids for a sleepover. Jackpot! So of course Pierre went for a little sleepover at the kennel himself. Sultan booked a room downtown at the Marriott on Michigan Avenue. Jackpot again!! He made mysterious reservations for dinner and all I knew was that he had to wear a jacket. Fancy. I got some new sexy bitch dominatrix shoes. I am totally obsessed with heels. I like shoes that make me so tall you might think I'm a tranny. Intimidating diva, that's me. I chose my fancy slinky dress, packed my overnight bag, fluffed my hair and we were off.

Upon check-in the concierge wished us a happy anniversary and upgraded us to the PENTHOUSE. Uh, for free? Mmmm-kay. I'll take it. This room was sick, and I mean that in the most complimentary way. It was two freakin' floors. There were two two-story windows overlooking Chicago. Jaw-dropping view, people. Bedroom on a balcony, huge bed with no less than 8 fluffy pillows. (I am a pillow whore and there is nothing I hate worse than a cheap-ass hotel that gips you by giving you two squishy shitbags with pillow cases that remind me of empty sausage casings.) Monstrous bathroom with enormous jacuzzi bathtub, his and hers pedestal sinks, fancy-pants bath and body products and a pristine shower which could fit 5 people. Kick ass.

We went to score a cab but were quickly offered a driver from the hotel in a nice little black car. I felt like a damn celebrity. We were pretty dressed up compared to most of the people hovering in the lobby. The light denim-clad posse parted a path for us like we were frickin' Moses. Maybe I am exaggerating. Okay, they bowed and rolled a red velvet carpet out, too. What treatment for a little married couple from the burbs. I was eating that shit up like Oprah snarfs biscuits and gravy with Gayle on their girly "sleepover nights".

Our driver pulled up to Tru, a Chicago restaurant which is pretty popular and extremely highly rated right now. Upon our check-in I realized this was not your run-of-the-mill fancy eatery. Three maitre-d's welcomed us. They knew it was our anniversary but when we told them it was 12 years, there was apparently a hidden mike in the lobby or an earpiece , CIA-style, to alert someone in the back. One waiter pulled out Sultan's chair, one waiter pulled the entire table aside to accommodate me. Another waiter brought a tray of warm napkins with tongs, "Would you care for a white or black napkin?" Ooh, I get to pick a COLOR? Does it really matter?... I chose black, like my coffee and my men. (Just kidding, Sultan.)

We were served some sort of welcoming yummy thing on a curved spoon. 279 ingredients all crammed into a savory bite. We perused the wine menu. Suddenly we were handed our menus, printed with "Happy 12th Anniversary Molly and Sultan" on the inside. And we're talked a heavy cardstock, bound menu. No photocopied cheap-ass paper here. Half bottle of Pinot Noir? Check. Tray of three different types of freshly baked rolls presented every 8.5 minutes? Check. TWO types of Vermont butter in decorative slabs? Check.

The menu was daunting. So many descriptions, so expensive, so exotic. So not like the Red Robin or Noodles and Company I usually frequent. I chose one tasting menu, Sultan chose another. The portions were so small that it was difficult to even share. But I ate fois gras and lamb and some sort of tomato gelatin with creamy Parmesan pearls. I ate sashimi and gazpacho WATER. No, not the soup, it was strained so that only the flavorful water was left. Served with a cucumber melon sorbet. Bizarro. There were three tiny disks of nectarine, maybe the size of dimes, balanced on their 1/8-inch sides, and skewered through their centers with a single sprig of chive. This meal was all about the details. Every course that was served required no less than three new utensils, which two servers brought out and simultaneously placed at each of our plates. Upon beginning to stand to head to the ladies room, one server moved the whole table aside, one took my napkin, and yet another personally escorted me to the bathroom. Classy. The sink was a single pane of glass angled so that the water poured over it and disappeared into some crevasse-like drain. Upon my return, the table was again moved to make it easy for me to sit. A freshly folded napkin was presented with tongs.

The best part of the meal was the servers/ waiters, and sommolier. I think they all had to take acting classes to get this gig. The way that they described our food and talked to us was so pretentious, so over-the-top with their sappy smiles, pursed lips, clasped hands in front of their chest like they were going to belt out a few verses of "A Few of My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music. I'm not sure if the sticks up their asses were self-inflicted or if that was part of the Tru Stuck-Up Waiter Training Regime. I tried my hardest to make them crack but they were tough. Our cheese guy, who brought a gorgeous marble cart of 16-20 cheeses from all over the damn world, did tell me he was going to try to incorporate my word "sassy" into his next cheese presentation. "Sassy"? How about "bad mutha' fucka' " as in "This aged goat cheese from the Provence region of France is a bad mutha' fucka'. I recommend it highly." Has more of a punch, right? Our sommolier got to taste a swig (big gulp from what I witnessed) of every single bottle that is opened each night. I asked him how he doesn't get completely lit by doing this. He said he doesn't taste that much (bullshit) and he has a tolerance (alcoholic). By the end of the night, our little sommolier that I dubbed the Keith Richards of Tru minus the eyeliner was shuffling like the penguin in Happy Feet to keep from falling over. Tolerance my ass.

The piece de la resistance was the sweet cart. Chocolates, cookies, candies, all too damn pretty to eat. They brought as a copper glass plate with "Happy 12th Anniversary Molly and Sultan" written in white chocolate, a rum truffle cake with two tiny candles poking out, but no cheesy song to accompany it. By this point we had drank a cocktail each and a whole bottle of wine. I was a little buzzed. I don't know if it was because they knew it was our anniversary, because my cleavage was showing precariously from my low-cut dress, or because I told one of our 25 servers that Sultan loved to cook, but we were offered a tour of the kitchen and a chance to meet he chefs. Bonus! Mr. Cheese Cart, a.k.a. Randall (or was it Russell??) showed us around. I saw where my gazpacho became water. I saw some pig hoof hanging which is where my prosciutto came from. We saw a vegetable fridge, meat cooler, and the pastry kitchen. In my inebriated state I could not think of anything clever that wasn't offensive (hey, I'm the queen of sexual innuendos and bad language. It is hard for me to be so calm and collected) to say. So I just kept my mouth shut. It was hard to do that once I saw the bill. Sweet Jesus that was extravagant.

Not sure if we'll ever go to Tru again. It was a dining experience. I know how to talk like a stuck-up snob and I experienced the best service I have ever had. I will not be serving your napkins with tongs, nor offering you a choice in colors the next time you come over. Mine are from the Bounty collection. I serve full-on gazpacho. I do not skewer my nectarines. But I just might sample every bottle of wine in my house just for shits and giggles. I am no a sommolier but momma likes her wine. Tru 'dat.....