A perfect dinner at Shaw's Crab House in Chicago

I was in Chicago’s Loop for a conference, and I slipped in before the keynote for an early dinner alone at Shaw’s Crab House.

I appetized on Oysters Rockefeller, complimented but not overpowered by shaved jarlsberg, tender spinach, and onions. Sometimes the poor oyster seems puny beneath these various seasonings in such dishes.

Shaw’s knows better. Oysters are sourced from both coasts. And at Shaw’s, the oyster is the thing. These beauties were briny, plump, and clearly the main ingredient.

I was feeling urbane at my small table, reading a New Yorker book review. A foursome across the wood-paneled dining room gawked appreciatively at what might have been the grand seafood tower; two servers stood tableside expertly extricating succulence from shells and various claws.

Winter before last, Rachel and I sat similarly with friends supping on king crab claws that bridged our whole table in great, jointed spans. We were hungry and amazed. Astonishment is an expression waitstaff are accustomed to seeing here.

A week ago, I had dinner with our son and girlfriend in Asheville. We sat on the upstairs, open-air deck at Strada Italiano on Broadway next to the chocolate shop. Casey, a flight attendant, has seen much of the world. As I write this, she’s laying over in Munich. I asked her where she’d like to be at this moment, if not here. She thought about it. New York, she said. She loves that city. Rome. San Francisco.

I enjoy asking questions like that. I come by it naturally. My father suffered from the grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence, a condition I inherited. The problem with this game is if you’re not careful, you miss where you are by relishing where you might be.

Clouds shape-shifted in that North Carolina sky, changing colors in westerly slants of dying sun. Rock and roll from the soundtrack of my adolescence pounded through house speakers. Outdoors was chilly, but pollinated air hinted at the promise of summer. Of all the places in the world I could be, there was no better place at that moment than in downtown Asheville, upstairs on the deck at Strada, with Joseph and Casey, Carolina blue sky deepening around us to violet.

Shaw’s used to be a newspaper warehouse. While the exterior looks it, the inside epitomizes fine dining. Linen and candles decorate tables. Teams of observant waiters leave no glass unfilled, running plays like college basketball teams in the ballet called the Sweet Sixteen. A pick and roll to Table Nineteen. A three-pointer to the table of six.

The Oysters Rockefeller and the cold Stella Artois could have sufficed for dinner. I opted, however, to plunge ahead with a main course of griddled garlic shrimp with lemon butter. I substituted spinach for rice and felt nutritiously self-righteous going for vitamin-rich greens instead of starch.

Perhaps because of the second Stella, I couldn’t refuse the waiter’s suggestion of dessert. And because I couldn’t decide which confectionery best suited this meal, I ordered the sampler. Twenty minutes before I had ordered spinach. Now the kitchen was sending out a portion of every dessert they had in stock.

My late great friend Mark Blodgett introduced me to Shaw’s after I took him to a poetry reading hosted by The Christian Century at the Arts Club of Chicago. We walked down steep concrete steps off Michigan Avenue into what appeared to be a dank alley. He wasn’t sure we were in the right place. I wasn’t sure I wanted to follow him deeper into these urban bowels.

But the Yale poet Christian Wiman had regaled a full house of theologians with lively reflection about how God’s impenetrable, absolute sovereignty sheds a shattering light. How can you be afraid of the dark after plumbing such mystery at close range for two hours? The reading transported me to another world. Mark lightly snored.

On an unlit, abandoned section of Hubbard, we came upon a black awning with the word “Shaw’s,” which meant nothing to me at that time but spells pure elegance now. We shoved through the narrow revolving doors and landed in a gold-lit world of aproned waiters in sharp, black vests.

All these years later, with Mark’s ghost hovering near, my waiter brought coffee, and a rectangular plate neatly lined with miniature slices, bowls, and ramekins of baked, frozen, iced, and torched desserts. It seemed excessive.

Had Rachel been with me, we would have evenly split this feast and been happily full. Cost and calories would have been modest for two. But I devoured everything, sans rendezvous. I exercised at least a modicum of restraint at the end of my meal when my waiter asked if I wanted another cup of coffee. I declined.

My dad came to mind, uninvited as he is wont to do but, as always, welcomed. He’d be 101 years old this weekend. At the end of our meals at home, Mom would offer seconds (or thirds). “No,” he’d finally say, waving off another helping. “More would be a superfluity.”

Yes, the grass may be greener somewhere else. Dad liked pining about those faraway, often tropical, climes. But he knew he was blessed where he was. Mom’s home cooking was one reason why. And, if not always content, Dad was grateful. I think being a World War II prisoner of war taught him that. He was, at his core, a thankful man. Dad handed that down, too.

Last time I came to Shaw’s alone, the maître d’ seated me at this exact table in the back of the dining room. On the rare occasion I’m here, there’s no better place in the world to spend a delicious hour savoring good food and dreaming about a million other places to be.