"Reddi-Wip, Butterscotch Schnapps, Bailey's, sans Nipple: One Star"

IT may be laughable when someone says he gets Penthouse magazine for the articles. It’s no joke when I say I went to the Penthouse Executive Club for the steaks. . . .

I gathered three friends for an initial trip. . . .

We were strangers to such pulchritudinous territory, less susceptible to the scenery than other men might be, more aroused by the side dishes than the sideshow: underdressed, overexposed young women in the vestibule, by the coat check, at the top of the red-carpeted stairs up to the restaurant, on the stage that many of the restaurant’s tables overlook.

“Are you hungry?” one of these women said, making hungry sound like an X-rated word. “Ravenous?”

She said she was running low on cabernet. I took the cue and asked if I could buy her a fresh glass. “Yes,” she said. “And you can pour it on my toes.”

Didn’t happen. And when one of her sorority sisters sidled up to us to pose a question not commonly uttered in fine-dining establishments — “Is there anyone I can get naked for?” — the response was silence. . . .

Mr. Lang [the executive chef] struts his stuff with a handful of surprising successes on an uneven menu. . .

The onion rings are fat and crunchy, and cream and bacon turn a side of brussels sprouts into something naughty, though not as naughty as the most unusual dessert. It’s called a buttery nipple, and it involves one of the women straddling your lap, tilting your head back, pouring a combination of Baileys Irish Cream and butterscotch schnapps down your throat, and squirting Reddi-wip into your mouth. It costs $20 in cash. Note to the newspaper’s expense auditors: I don’t have a receipt.

If you want to charge $38 for shrimp cocktail or $105 for Kobe-style beef, that's fine. You post your prices. I can order them or not.

But here's the thing. If I order them, the shrimp cocktail had better have shrimp in it, and when the steak arrives, it had better be beef and not chicken (unless that's how they do it in Japan). Do you see where I'm going with this?

If I order the Buttery Nipple in a joint run by Penthouse magazine and the dessert involves the chef de pâtisserie straddling my lap and tilting back my head to pour Bailey's and schnapps and Reddi-wip into my mouth, I'm going to assume that stuff is a palate cleanser for the eponymous body part to come. If the pastry chef leaves my lap before allowing nipple to hit my lips, tongue, inner cheek -- whatever area she deems most appropriate for savoring the buttery goodness promised in the dessert's title -- I'm going to be really, really, really disappointed.

What can I tell you? I'm a food snob. When I order a buttery nipple, I expect real butter, real cream, and real nipple.

I will accept in their absence butterscotch schnapps, Kool Whip, and whatever else you want to throw in there, but in the end, you've got to come through on the teat. And it doesn't have to be Kobe-quality teat, either. I mean, if I'm willing to pay $20 bucks for Reddi-wip, I'm willing to accept off-brand nipple, as well. If you have to, strip down Pavel the busboy, dunk him in Pine-Sol, and drag him over to my Reddi-lips, do it. I don't care. Once I'm in a settling mood, I'll take whatever you've got. I don't expect you to go out of the way for me, but I do expect you to follow through on your promise.

Seriously, if Larry Flynt had a restaurant and it listed a Funky Vagina as a dessert item, it might come with any number of distractions and accoutrements -- ping pong balls, strands of pearls, extinguished candles, a live birth, maybe, even a penicillin rinse, any number of distractions -- but do you know what it would also come with? That's right: a funky vagina. And do you know why? Because Larry Flynt delivers. If he says there's funky vagina to be had, funky vagina will be gently fading from your middle palate as you leave.

By the way, Larry, if you're out there, thinking about opening a restaurant to take on the Penthouse boys -- this might not be the appropriate forum but -- if need a concierge de funké, I am your man. (Reference submitted on demand.)

*Thanks to the Law Guy for pointing this article out to me