I ABANDONED MY notes before the first course began. Not 15 minutes into it, I knew that the extenuating circumstances were such that I might have nothing nice to say about the evening regardless of the oysters’ esprit or the manner in which the mysterious crudo presented itself, and it seemed that the fair thing would be to say nothing at all. But, nevertheless, here I am saying it.

Maybe it’s just that I can’t keep my mouth shut about the fabulous ladies’ room, each WC with its own window on the world. Or that I feel happily compelled to note that not all Italian grandmas think of spaghetti just as the stuff made of semolina. Hmm . . . the chef’s roasted Pacific halibut with spaghetti squash alla nonna was fabulous, but nah, I think I just need to vent.

MY FIRST CRIME was showing up à deux—never mind that the invitation was for my photographer and me. A PR agent had conveyed an incorrect message (I saved the e-mail; she apologized) to the venue (which I won’t name because I don’t think that one terrible night necessarily calls for a public finger-pointing), so they were expecting just me. It was a case of crossed wires, but for some reason, things got ugly; a venue employee whom I’ll call Mary Poopins was downright ruffled by my very presence. She left to fix the seating arrangement after looking down her nose at us and haughtily proclaiming, “We rise to any occasion.” We went in search of cocktails and the chef, a big-name New Yorker with local ties.

As I spotted him it occurred to me that one mistake portends another, so I caught up with Mary Poopins and asked if the kitchen had been made aware of my dietary restrictions. (Although it’s often necessary for me to sample meat dishes, at home I stick to seafood and I prefer not to eat meat as a meal; I had asked the PR people to pass this along weeks prior.) She said they hadn’t, but this too she would fix—although not without significant condescension. Funny, even airlines almost always get it right. I had rejoined my photographer, grabbed an unappetizingly cold wild mushroom and whipped Brie crostini, and was attempting to relocate the chef when Ms. Poopins swooped back in.

“Didn’t anyone tell you this was a formal affair? We really don’t allow denim,” she said, gazing scornfully at my photographer’s dark, very respectable skirt and her tall Italian leather boots. “I’m afraid you’ll feel quite underdressed.”

I swallowed a comment about the polyblend of her blazer and the garish mauve of what looked to be a mother-of-the-bride dress on a woman to my right and assured her that we felt just fine, thanks. And then it was time for the first course. My opportunity to chat with the chef was gone, yet Ms. Poopins had succeeded in going out of her way to be rude to us. Still, you have to try harder than that if you’re going to piss me off.

TENACIOUS LITTLE BUGGERS, these, and after the surprising and wonderfully delicate crudo (the chef’s signature raw fish appetizer that is similar to sashimi but served with capers and olive oil) and nontraditional spaghetti, the kitchen staff proceeded to bring me breast of squab and then beef tenderloin, and I proceeded to, as politely as possible, ask them to take it away each time. In a town like this, from a chef who is renowned for his seafood, this was pretty intolerable.

Despite a very nice couple seated to my left, we felt universally, incredibly, and groundlessly unwelcome, and I was sort of afraid they would bring me veal instead of Sacher torte for dessert, so we split before the last course was served. I’ve been alternately bummed out, embarrassed, and pissed off since then, and the only conclusion I can draw is this: When the apple is bad enough, it only takes one to sour an entire evening—no matter the prestige of the chef nor the breathtaking views from the loo.

lcassidy@seattleweekly.com