How I Nearly Broke My Neck for a Michelin Star

The evening began with a promise, a whisper of sophistication nestled on the eighth floor of an old French-style edifice in Shanghai, a building that, with its stately facade overlooking the Huangpu, strongly suggested a past life as a financial institution where fortunes were made and, more likely, lost. This was Roosevelt Niupaguan Steakhouse, a hallowed ground boasting two Michelin stars and, presumably, a rather impressive mortgage.

My objective, beyond the consumption of an overpriced bovine, was to enjoy the company of Jessie, my perpetually mysterious, beautifully tattooed companion. She arrived, as is her custom, late. Fortunately, I, being a man intimately familiar with the gravitational pull of a woman’s internal clock, had booked our reservation half an hour after our agreed-upon meeting time, thus ensuring she appeared, by sheer cosmic coincidence, precisely on schedule. A small victory, but one I savored like a rare vintage.

The dining room, despite its grand aspirations, possessed a ceiling that seemed to be actively attempting to escape into the floor above, creating an illusion of intimacy that, on a bustling night, would no doubt descend into outright claustrophobia. Tonight, however, being a Monday, the place was as sparsely populated as a hermit’s address book. This was a mercy, as it allowed my face, which rarely benefits from anything beyond the harsh glare of reality, to appear "just right" under the steakhouse’s dimly lit ambient glow.

“Ambient,” I noted to Jessie, gesturing vaguely at the room. “Or simply ‘insufficiently lit’?”

“Perhaps,” she offered, her piercing eyes catching the subtle reflections from her diamond jewelry. “Though it does wonders for one’s complexion. And conceals the stains of a thousand bad decisions.”

The outdoor seating, which most couples – seemingly unfazed by a humidity level that suggested a pillow being smothered over one’s face – had opted for, provided a front-row seat to the peculiarities of modern romance. There, directly opposite us through the glass partition, sat a couple engaged in a performance art piece involving selfie-induced starvation. The woman, with a dedication that would make a professional photographer blush, took incessant pictures of herself, her food, and then herself with her food. Her male counterpart, meanwhile, gnawed silently on his exorbitant meal, his expression a testament to the darkness of heart and mind that only a truly over-priced dinner can induce.

“An influencer, perhaps?” Jessie mused, watching the photographic ritual unfold.

“Hardly,” I scoffed. “There isn’t nearly enough food on that table to influence a famished alley cat, let alone a global audience. One steak, perhaps a garnish, and a grim determination. Not exactly a masterclass in culinary excess.”

Jessie insisted more food must be on the way. I, however, being a keen observer of human folly and restaurant economics, noticed the waiter presenting the bill. Her ensuing laughter was, I admit, quite charming.

Our own culinary journey commenced. I, ever the traditionalist, navigated the treacherous waters of Caesar salad, ox tail soup, and a sirloin steak, medium rare. Jessie, meanwhile, pondered the aquatic possibilities. “I’d have liked some clams,” she announced, “or shrimp. Perhaps some other abominations of the deep.”

I demurred. My appreciation for the ocean’s bounty rarely extended beyond a comfortable distance from my plate.

The waiters, bless their earnest souls, tried valiantly to deliver a two-Michelin-star experience. One could almost feel their desperate desire to impress. Yet, something was amiss. Perhaps it was the frequent translations lost in the ether, or perhaps it was my own internal monologue drowning out the niceties. And then there was the sliding dining room door. Each time I entered or exited the main dining room, the wretched lip of the door seemed to conspire against my very gait, sending me lurching forward, a human pratfall awaiting its cue. I narrowly avoided an unscheduled face-plant on no fewer than three occasions. One Michelin star for the food, two for the involuntary acrobatic display.

Adding to the peculiar atmosphere was the musical selection: a truly baffling mélange of house music interspersed with jarring, cringe-worthy bursts of techno and Afro beats. My musical soul, which usually prefers its melodies to be less conducive to epileptic fits, found itself snapping into involuntary rhythmic chewing patterns. A culinary rave, if you will.

Despite the exorbitant prices, a quick glance at their website earlier had revealed the existence of a set dinner option, a glimmer of economic sanity that would have provided a more substantial repast and, crucially, a complete course. But alas, by then, the die – and the bill – had been cast.

We concluded with tiramisu and espresso. The tiramisu, a respectable end to a meal, and the espresso, a necessary caffeine injection to prepare for the inevitable cultural complexities that awaited us outside. As we departed, having survived the door, the music, and the visual spectacle of the selfie couple, I couldn’t help but feel that while the steaks were fine, the true entertainment of the evening lay in the unexpected theatre of it all. And so, fortified by steak and existential wonder, we embarked upon our next adventure: the perilous quest for a post-dinner coffee.