It's The Ultimate New Canaan Eater's Accolade

I'm trying to figure out a way to finagle Chef Luis into naming one of his entrees after me. You've seen the menu there, right? "Klein's Chicken Scarpariello” is on it. And "Levethan’s Salmon Silvestre." That's fine for Klein and Levethan, but how about me? I’m as big a fan of Chef Luis' food as anyone. I've certainly downed more than my share of bourbon at the bar there, not to mention platefuls of Kramer's Calamares. (Not to be missed!) And while I admit he does this to just about everybody, Chef always greets me when I arrive like I'm his long-lost friend. Shouldn't that count for something?

It doesn't even have to be an entrée. A "Conrad Banks's Waldorf Salad" would be perfectly acceptable. Or "Conrad Banks's Stuffed Artichoke." I have half a mind to get Klein or Kramer on the phone to find out directly what the secret is. Are a mandatory minimum number of visits required in order to be considered? No problem. The televisions at Chef Luis are some of the best bar TVs in town. I'd be happy to do double duty on lunch and dinner there watching golf all day on weekends. Or should I simply spend more time flattering the great man himself? Even better. As Mrs. Banks will tell you, I can lather it on like a champ.

Not to sound boastful, but I consider myself to be one of the best eaters in town, and am only hoping for some recognition. At Smith & Wollensky's in New York, for instance, top-performing customers are acknowledged with little brass nameplates in the bar. I don't pretend to be in that league--can you imagine how many Manhattans it would take?--but still do pretty well. Likewise, a Japanese place in Norwalk I know of recognizes favorite customers by naming hand rolls after them. That's more like the kind of thing I have in mind, but has its own problems: most of these particular rolls, for example, don't have any actual fish in them, which means that, technically, they don't really count as sushi. That takes some of the shine off the honor, if you ask me. "What is the point?," I remember saying to myself as I scanned the menu, and immediately thought of the best sushi restaurant I've ever been to, on East 73rd Street in Manhattan. The fish there is outstanding, but what really sold me on the place was the sign on the door as we walked in: "NO SPICY TUNA, NO CALIFORNIA ROLL. TRUST ME." That's the kind of message that says you're going to be taken care of right.

It of course goes without saying that I trust Chef Luis implicitly to take care of me right, which is something I'll be sure to mention to him when I kick off my charm campaign the next time I'm sitting at his bar. "Luther's Fajitas, delicious as always!," I'll say (and they will be), but will be careful to not to lay it on too thick. I can't be the only one in town scheming to elbow his way onto the entrée section. Luis must have heard it all by now. "Luis, I love those new pillows on the banquette!," is obviously bogus suck-uppery, for instance, something that could only be uttered by a blatant menu-climber who has no serious interest in dinner. "Say, is that a new POS system behind the bar? What a beauty!," is a non-starter, as well. Better, I think, to limit my comments to areas where I've already demonstrated enthusiasm and competence. Now that a I think of it, "Luis, this new summer beer selection is first-class!," could be just the way to kick things off. With enough high-quality flattery and a cheerful persistence, who knows? I might even find myself on the menu by Labor Day. So Luther and Levethan, watch out! With luck, pretty soon there may be a new kid in town.

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