Big Night.

I am sick. I have been dealing with a frustrating, annoying, nuisance of a head cold since sometime in the middle of the night Monday. A cold in January is to be expected of course, and while I would normally never welcome one, I can’t say I’m too shocked to have caught a bug. Fine, fine, it’s a part of winter and cold season. I get it. But oh, of ALL the weeks this winter to feel ill.

Do you know the movie Big Night? Stanley Tucci, Minnie Driver? It’s a lovely little film about two Italian immigrant brothers trying to save their failing restaurant. When word gets out that Louis Prima is going to visit their restaurant, it seems this is their last chance to go all out and make a feast to end all feasts. Here’s what I mean:



Big Night is a movie that will make even a non-foodie fall in love with the pleasure of a well cooked, extravagant dinner. There is a restaurant in Beacon Hill, Grotto, which recreates the Big Night feast once a year. My friends and I have known about the event for ages, have been signed up on the restaurants mailing list for months, ready to pounce the minute the next Big Night was announced. Space is always limited, the event always sells out in a flash. This year, Big Night just happened to be scheduled for January 26th. A friend made the reservations instantly – comfirming with us only after the fact. Clearly, we were all onboard.

And so the reservation was set, excited emails sent ‘round, and outfits planned. Grotto encourages their guests to embrace the ‘50s attire from the movie – and since when have I not agreed to embrace a fashion casting call? It goes without saying that I had been looking forward to this night for weeks. I dreamt of the food, the wine, the ambiance, the company. So, of course, the moment I felt ill, I worried. I panicked. Always a trooper, I was determined to plow through my illness. I was going to Big Night, come hell or highwater. On Wednesday morning, despite feeling lousy, I trudged off to work as normal, outfit change tucked into my bag. I didn’t really feel any better as the work day wore on, but I kept drinking my tea and sipping my orange juice, just willing myself to feel better –if only for a few evening hours.

At 6pm, over I went to our work bathroom to change into my 50’s inspired cocktail dress, with plans to arrive at the restaurant for our 7pm reservation. Off with the work pants, over the head with the elegant little black number, a lean over to the right to zip up the side of the dress, and…huh. The zipper won’t work. Uh oh. A wave of panic washes over me, I try and calm myself down: It’s okay, Kelli. Just take a deep breath and try again. I pull again. And again, huh. Now the damn thing won’t move up or down.

Shit.

I’m stuck.

Trying my best not to break into a cold sweat, I walk out of the bathroom and tiptoe over to my former boss’s office. She is sitting on the telephone behind a closed door. I tap on the glass with a panicked look on my face. She motions for me to come inside. In a swift miming gesture I explain everything to her, hoping she’ll be able to solve the zipper mystery. She tells the person on the phone she’ll have to call them back.

Alas, things get worse. Now the zipper that won’t zip up or down also comes apart at both ends. The teeth aren’t catching. Oh, and? I can’t get out of the damn dress. There I am, standing in my publisher’s office, in stockings, with a runny nose, a headache, and the chills, clutching the side of my dress that I. am. stuck. in.

She and I ransack the office for safety pins. I work in an office that’s 90% female. Finding a safety pin shouldn’t be hard, right? Ha. I look at her with what I’m sure is a deer in headlights look. She bites her lip.

“Do you have any packaging tape?” she asks.

Seeing as I know I’m going to have to replace the zipper anyway, I convince her to rip the thing completely apart, mostly because I fear I’ll arrive home at my apartment later in the evening still stuck in my dress. I close my eyes and bite my lip. I hear the sound of the rip. And then my former boss and now even closer friend goes to work taping me up. “So, these friends you’re meeting? Are they good friends?” she asks.

I laugh and say yes. Yes they are.


With the tape in place and a cardigan thrown on to hide my battle wound I hail a cab to get downtown. As I sit in the back of the cab, en route, I concentrate again on how awfully lousy I feel. But I steel my nerves and convince myself that the worst part of the night is over. It will surely only go up from here. I arrive to find my friends seated, all looking dashingly handsome and beautiful just as I’d predicted. The wine is already poured; the olives and prosciutto are set out for snacking. After the maître d’ takes my coat and a round of hugs are exchanged among our group, I pull out my chair to sit down.

“Guys,” I say. “I’ve got two things to get out of the way right now. I feel like death warmed over. And my dress has a giant rip in the seam. Okay. It’s out there. Let’s celebrate.”


Of course, this is the part of the post where I would love to tell you about every single delectable morsel I enjoyed. I would love to make your mouths water as I described the three different types of risotto we enjoyed, or imagine you salivating away as I told tales of salmon and scallops and chicken parmigiana and perfectly cooked tenderloin. All which just kept coming and coming, always with the options for more. And if you weren’t jealous enough already, I’d mention the prosciutto encrusted duck or the timpana and its insane sauce. And obviously, I would not forget to mention the whole roasted suckling pig, nor the bottomless glass of wine.


Except.

Last night? I couldn’t taste a thing.

I. KNOW.

I don’t know why my illness decided to really rear her ugly head last night between the hours of 7 and 11pm, but rear it she did. At first, I was at least able to sample a few bites here and there to get the jist of the entrée, but as the night wore on? Even the simple act of swallowing anything, forced a wave of nausea upon me. My friends, being empathetic, suggested maybe I should head home…but at that point, hell, I was staying as long as my poor body would let me stay seated. I’d already paid a pretty penny for food I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy. Over my dead body (literally) was I missing out on a few hours with friends I don’t see often enough.

Earlier in the week I’d emailed a co-worker about this extravagant event and he grew to be as excited about Big Night as I was. And he doesn’t even live in Massachusetts! When I got home last night, just before I squirreled out of my tattered dress, he texted me: “Please tell me the cold subsided and you are feasting/feasted this evening?” To which, of course, I sent a very sorry, sad, and woe is me text in reply.

He – and later, when I lamented the events of the night to my father, as well – replied, “Well you just have to go again next year.”

Indeed.

I believe I’ll start stocking up on the vitamin C right now.