Neiman-Marcus

This morning I drove into Dallas for lunch, and -- as usual when I venture out of the house -- it turned into an adventure.

A group of old ladies who graduated from Texas Woman's College in 1950 meet for lunch every two months at various Dallas restaurants. This month the luncheon was at Nieman-Marcus in the North Park shopping center.

My first problem was finding the place. When my family moved from Dallas to Philadelphia forty years ago, North Park Center was brand new and on the northern edge of the city. My sister-in-law Mary told me to exit from the expressway at North Park Drive: "It's right there at the exit." I drove south 60 miles an hour on the expressway, mentally noting as I passed exit after exit that the city had grown so big that I no longer recognized any landmarks.

I felt confident when I saw the North Park exit. I drove up the ramp and turned left onto a busy, six-lane street. I had turned the wrong way. I made a big circle around North Dallas, passing along an avenue lined with spectacular mega-mansions. Except for wasting $4 a gallon gas, my big detour confirmed my belief that the reason George Bush has such loyal supporters in Dallas is that it is full of millionaires who think the way he does.

Finally I circled back and drove into the shopping center. In front of me on the building at the end of the parking lot were big letters on the brick wall: Neiman-Marcus. Serendipity! A parking space was waiting for me right in front of the door. That's the story of my life: I take wrong turns and waste a lot of time wandering around, but I always end grateful for the experience.

Inside the store, I passed through the department where handbags were on sale, piles of them spread out on a table similar to a display you'd see in a thrift store. I picked up a big gold bag and looked at the price tag. Sale price: $402. Original price: $895. Please! No woman needs a purse which costs $895 or even $402. In my plebeian mind, any woman who carries such a purse should be convicted of extravagant consumption and required to do penance by living a year in a trailer park.

Upstairs our group gathered in an elegant private dining room. I had not seen these former classmates in almost 60 years. People's appearance changes in such a long time. I did not recognize any of the faces beneath those gray heads, and, worse of all, I did not even remember their names. We had a good time talking about the lives we lead today.

The lunch was delicious. Our attentive waiter's accent was strange. As he went out the door, he said, "Bradbutr" meaning "I'm bringing bread and butter." It did not matter. Our leader had chosen the menu, which included gourmet chicken salad with almonds, a mandarin orange "souffle" (little oranges in jello), and a large serving of cantaloupe, honeydew, and berries with poppy seed dressing. Dessert was another "souffle" : like very light angel food with caramel sauce.

When a gal is 80 years old and been a lot of places and eaten a million meals, it is always fun to have a new experience. I never ate lunch at Neiman's in all the years I visited in Dallas while growing up in Fort Worth, nor many years later when we lived for four years in the Dallas suburb of Irving. I did not even shop at the Neiman's in Oak Brook when we lived in the Chicago suburbs. But I had always heard about the innovative menus in the Neiman's tearoom.

Then came the bill. We had to pay for five people who made reservations but did not show up. The waiter added a 20% gratuity. And Texas sales tax. It cost each of us $33 for lunch. And Neiman-Marcus does not accept Mastercard nor Visa. Just their own credit card.

I can't remember another time when I paid $33 for lunch. Not even in France. Was it worth it? For the Neiman-Marcus experience? Yes. Once.