4 Jean Georges, New York

When I first came to New York, 12 years ago, I remember being astonished that a restaurant like Le Cirque would even let me in the door and I was not at all surprised to be kept waiting for my table while all the real Le Cirque customers, easily identifiable even to an Australian amateur, were shown to their tables. On that occasion, my companion and I were provided free Veuve Cliquot to ease the pain of our humiliating wait.

Of course I am the one who causes the problem: I never look right. I am messy. No matter what money I spend on a suit, nothing will prevent me vandalising it with cherry juice or candle wax. Also, I don't know how people get their hair so tidy, and this general sartorial ineptitude, unsupported by any obvious strength of character, exacerbated, in fact, by a certain nervous disposition, is clearly the reason I have at various times been seated beside the kitchen at Union Square CafÀ or behind the bar at the Tribeca Bar and Grill. On each of those occasions I was greeted in the most charming and solicitous manner imaginable, so I learned long ago to distrust the smile of greeting, and to note instead that fast flick downwards of the eyes as some fatal flaw - visible only to a Maitre D' - signals the exact co-ordinates of my new Siberia.

Last Friday night, as I entered Jean Georges in the company of my English adviser, I found myself faced by a whole bank of handsome well-dressed people. Being anxious, I was not counting well. There were perhaps three, or four, in any case more of them than us. These gorgeous creatures stood behind a desk and observed us as we crossed the carpet. If they would only keep their eyes on my beautiful adviser, perhaps everything might still be fine. If not, then OK. I would not make a fuss. It's convenient, always, to be close to the bathroom.

Imagine my surprise to be led immediately to the best table in the room. Of course there were many good tables in what is arguably New York's best restaurant, but this table, our table, was the best one. Trust me. It was large and round with some six feet of very expensive empty space surrounding it.

In the face of my unconcealed astonishment, my adviser affected a certain sympathetic worldliness. Is it possible, she asked, that Observer Food Monthly made the booking?

Of course.

Well, baby, get ready for some major sucking-up.

I am all for sucking up. It is exactly what I had wanted at Le Cirque and the Tribeca Bar and Grill. It was what I have always wished for at Daniel where they pack you in tight, elbow to elbow, Chanel to Chanel. But even when a very elegant man with stylish eyebrows began dispensing La Grande Dame champagne I did not dare believe what was happening at Jean Georges. They're onto you, my adviser whispered happily. This will be amazing. And then I saw it was true, for even before I had a chance to be inarticulate about the champagne, it was somehow announced that we were to have a specially devised tasting menu, a carefully selected wine with every course. Suddenly all those tricky decisions about matching great food and fine wine were taken away. Like someone who has set out to navigate a complicated and dangerous cross-country journey, I was astonished to find the steering wheel moving expertly of its own accord.

So I must have been happy? Yes, of course, and not at all. Having waited 60 years to be finally treated as someone important, I now felt a total fraud. My palate was not up to this cellar. I have been known to confuse chicken with veal. I do not know how to pronounce veloutÀ, let alone know what it might be.

But when the amuse-bouche arrived, I really did try my best, discreetly balancing my drugstore notebook on my thigh. In the cold light of day it is not an edifying document. But I see that I have tried to draw an egg, a response to the second course of egg caviar which was truly, beyond belief: the deep warm creaminess of the scrambled egg inside the shell, the perfect cool crunchiness of Osetra caviar on top. Zagat's, the famous New York restaurant guide quotes a customer appraisal of Jean Georges - 'IT'S BETTER THAN SEX'. My English adviser, having an aversion to runny egg, begged to differ.

But I have already written too much, just as I would soon eat too much. In a moment there will be no space for the things I planned to dwell on, for instance, the dim rather twilight lighting which we at first thought rather corporate, but which, after three-and-a-half hours of friendly and informative service, did feel exactly like a home. This was not Daniel with its wall to wall Chanel, not Da Silvano with its models and movie stars. There was, in New York's best restaurant, amazingly, something pleasantly homely about the clientele. This was very relaxing. By the third glass of wine, a Riesling Gold-Quadrat 2001 by Sybille Kuntz, I was feeling rather sophisticated, even glamorous. I could afford to be superior about sartorial disasters I witnessed all around me. My God, did you see that frock?

I devoured my Celery Root VeloutÀ with Black Truffle Dumplings and - finally, my first froth - Butterscotch Froth and Sage.

It was not better than sex, was so rich that it made the idea of sex impossible, but I was experiencing a very high level of pleasure. The service was perfect, human, sometimes wry or even ironic. The young sommelier was a fireball. You could have got drunk from his energy. He was full of information, which he delivered entertainingly. This was a man who was passionate about his work. I savoured SautÀed Foie Gras, Black Mission Figs, Vanilla Glazed Endive and - my second foam, ever - walnut foam. But really, really I had almost had enough. I began to wish that we had been given Chef Vongerichten's assortment of signature dishes instead. Only seven dishes. Less is more.

But I was from Observer Food Monthly. We were to have nine courses. The next knife and fork and spoon were laid and I observed them thoughtfully. When my Red Snapper PoelÀe arrived, I ate warily. What might happen to me next? I was writing for Observer Food Monthly and must be shown Vongerichten's amazing feats. I am sure Vongerichten is an elegant man of normal height and temperament, but I began to have visions of a tiny mad magician performing endless impossible tricks. Eggs vanishing in a puff of yellow foam. Fish turning into wine. Here, here, try this. Lobster Tartine, Lemon grass, Fenugreek Broth, Pea Shoots. Black Cod Steamed with Honshimeli Mushrooms. Here, seared Beef Sirloin, Crispy Potato and summer herb salad. With 11 flavours.

What a show it was. Who could match it? It is absolutely my fault that I could manage only a tiny slice of the succulent beef and that I could not count the 11 flavours. I could manage no more than to sip on a wonderful Barolo Vigna Colonnello 1989. I was defeated, but the meal was not over and when the desserts arrived, when I saw the three huge tray-like plates, each one containing four different delicacies, I whimpered.

I had spent three-and-a-half hours eating the best food and drinking some of the finer wine the planet can produce. I had shared the best table in New York with the best company I could imagine. I had been spoiled and pampered. I had everything I ever wanted and I never wished to eat again.

Peter Carey is the author of, among others, Oscar and Lucinda and True History of the Kelly Gang, for which he won the Booker Prize.

To order a copy of his latest book My Life as a Fake for £14.99 plus p&p (Faber, rrp £16.99)call the Observer Book Service on 0870 066 7989

Dinner for two £240

Michelin stars 3 World rating 4 Location Trump Tower, Central Park West, New York (001 212 299 3900) How long is the waiting list? 1 month What the critics said 'I have not had a single dish that was less than triumphant' (Ruth Reichl, The New York Times)