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It was a theme repeated throughout my two-and-a-half hour meal (yes I lingered).  Le Bernardin not only knows how to cook, it knows how to play the game.  No wonder, I thought, as one of my many servers pulled out a chair and smiled lovingly into my eyes, the New York Times has consistently given it four stars.  I made a silent promise not to fall for any of it – I would eat and enjoy, of course, but I wouldn’t so easily be swayed by Le Bernardin’s wily ways.  It has been my experience that, when a new lover seems too wonderful, too dashing, too accommodating, he is not real.  Discovering that Le Bernardin was not real would have broken my heart, and I was determined to leave with it in one piece.

I forgot all of that and fell stupidly, quickly, maddeningly, beautifully in love.

My purse was given a seat next to me, off the floor, as I was handed a wine list and the sommelier strode over to assist me in choosing a wine to enjoy as I perused the menu. Together, we decided on a glass of rosé for its summery drinkability.  It was almost immediately brought to my table.  ”Cheers,” she said with a smile as I let the loveliest, most crisp, pinkest wine I’ve ever tasted pass my lips.  It was excellent, without a hint of sweet, and I was thankful that it wasn’t going to argue with my first course.

The lunch is a $68 prix fixe, not including wine, and for two dishes and a dessert, I’d say that’s more than reasonable.  To start, you’re given a choice of “almost raw” and “barely touched” plates.  The entrées are “cooked gently,” and are mostly fish, unless you’re foolish enough to order pasta or meat.  Eric Ripert does fish, and he does it well.  At the risk of sounding bossy, it is absolutely what one should order at Le Bernardin. 

But the restaurant is about so much more than its cuisine, and I want to talk about that.  It is truly an oasis in the middle of Manhattan, an undersea sanctuary found next to Radio City Music Hall.

“It’s so cool in here!” I had said as I entered, holding a hand to the back of my neck.  The air in Le Bernardin is perfectly controlled, chilly without being uncomfortable.  The obscured windows and teak woodwork help maintain the welcoming climate, and the enormous floral bouquets (sunflowers, the day I dined) are just plain pretty.  

The main dining room is so set up that those eating catch only glimpses of other diners.  A plant here, a wood panel there – as I looked around the room, I caught snatches of conversation and a few serene facial expressions, including a wink from a beautiful older woman in a suit – but it feels largely private and personal.

No matter – I had the waitstaff to keep me company.  As soon as my rosé arrived, I was given a bowl of salmon rillette and three crisp slices of toast.  The rillette was creamy, fatty and chunky, while maintaining a spreadable smoothness, and the bread was perfectly crisped.  

“Are you still enjoying this?” a server asked much later, as I inched toward dessert.

“Yes, please don’t take it!” I begged and laughed, imploring him to leave it within my reach.  He smiled knowingly.

The rillette and toast were a mere tease, though, for the bread had yet to arrive at the table.  When it did, it arrived in style.  I was shown a tray of six different fresh breads and given a brief description of each.  The oblong olive stick tempted briefly, but the crust on the sourdough roll looked too good to pass on.  I pointed to it excitedly and was rewarded with a taut, crisp exterior that gave way to a dense and chewy dough.  You can try all of the bread if you wish, for the moment you finish your piece, the tray will be back.  Knowing what lay ahead, I refused a second yeasty little temptresses, but not without a twinge of regret.

Before my first course arrived, I ventured to the restroom – and I must have you know I normally wouldn’t share such a banal detail.  But as I walked the long, mirror-lined hallway to the door marked with a sleek “W,” I caught a glimpse of my legs.  I was positively striding down the carpet.  There’s something about Le Bernardin that makes diners act like their best selves.  (My best self is, apparently, a model who likes to twirl in front of enormous mirrors in midtown restaurant restrooms.)  

As I slipped back into my chair, I whispered to my cashier.  ”That hallway is like a runway!”

He laughed softly – everyone speaks softly at Le Bernardin – “I sometimes tell our customers that the restrooms across the street are closer!”

My rillette and bread were moved to the corners of the oversized table as the octopus I’d ordered made its way.  It sat on a small rectangular plate, and it was beautiful.  The thinnest whispers of peaches were strewn across gently curled tentacles.  A few fermented black beans lay against the stark white plate, along with two pert arugula leaves.  As my server described each component, he poured a miso-black ink vinaigrette on the plate, letting it pool.  Strictly aesthetically speaking, it was the most beautiful plate I have ever encountered in a restaurant.  I almost didn’t dare puncture it with my knife and fork, but those were such a pretty silver, I felt it only right to add a bit of shimmer to the scene.  The entire thing was perfect, of course, and I ate it all – right down to the very last brunoise of peach.  The ink was tangy and thick, adding a sweetness more intense and aggressive than that of the fruit.  What an interesting combination of ingredients.  It reminded me of a couple courting one another; the charred, heavy octopus playing the confident male, the tender, delicate peaches a shy young woman.

With the departure of my first course, I was given a few moments reprieve.  Needing to compose myself and wanting to reflect on what I’d just eaten, I sat a little further back in my chair and absent-mindedly rubbed my arm.  A few moments were all I needed, and just as soon as I straightened up, my second course was brought from the kitchen (they just know): a fillet of red snapper, crusted with sourdough bread, sitting in a pool of perfectly smooth citrus broth.  A first spoonful of the sauce was light – but was that a hint of tomato I tasted in the finish?  It was hard to be certain.

The fish was filleted with the touch and care of a genius, and the dish’s many elements were all tuned just so.  I tasted a dollop of zucchini and mint, remembering briefly my mission to find something wrong with the cuisine.  I triumphed, unable to detect any mint, but then – wait – there it was, surprising and refreshing, and now enveloping my entire mouth!

The snapper was moist and light, dripping with its natural juices.  It is almost as if someone took a perfect piece of fish and a perfect piece of bread and somehow – magic? – melded the two together, without compromising the integrity and personality of either.  

Sweets at Le Bernardin are just as good as the food, proving that they are given as much thought and care as the menu.  I couldn’t decide how to end my meal (in truth, I was trying desperately to extend it into next month), so I ordered two.

Dessert was preluded by a small, hollowed egg filled with salted custard.  ”Scoop from the bottom,” I was encouraged, “And you’ll get everything together.”  Everything, indeed.  Sweet, salty, heavy, light, creamy, foamy – I refuse to believe that mere mortals work the kitchen at Le Bernardin.

After, I was given my first choice of grapefruit sorbet (wickedly tart) with vanilla cream (soft, homey) and a tarragon meringue “cracker” (cheekily green.)  With an espresso, I ate a vanilla poached apricot (slick with syrup) on top of a shortbread cookie, and apricot cream and coulis (delightfully ebullient), held captive by a shatteringly thin sheet of white chocolate.

The presentation of the check was made sweeter with a small bowl of pistachio madelines, and my exit was made painfully difficult by the warm smiles and nods of the staff.

As I pushed through the revolving doors, I realized Le Bernardin’s one flaw – it’s that when one dines there, the rest of the day, any future meals and really, just life in general seem so very heartbreakingly unsatisfactory.