NEW ORLEANS – I don’t wish to alarm anyone, but the end of Western civilization is upon us. I know because, sad to report, my platonic ideal of a restaurant – the once ineffable Galatoire’s – is no more. It has been replaced by an inferior replica going under the same name. Oh, do you know what it means to miss … Galatoire’s?

Talk about the indigo blues. Ever since I was a young groom full of trepidation when I took my bride there for the first time, knowing for sure I’d use the wrong fork, and be diminished forever in her genteel sight, a meal there had never failed to educate and elevate, delighting the mind as much as the palate.

Each time over the many years, I was taken in imperceptible hand by one of Galatoire’s impeccable old waiters who combined the taste of an M.F.K. Fisher with the diplomacy of a Talleyrand. Effortlessly I found myself ordering the precisely right, delectable dish while leaving the impression it was all my own, cultivated idea.

Why was this night different from all those other nights? It shouldn’t have been. The rectangular room was unchanged, with its reflecting mirrors on both long, elegant sides – a sight to soothe and assure, as if time had halted like some slow smooth train with a perfect dining car. The green and gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper was the same, the brass hat racks were still spaced out at just the right, uniform distance, punctuating perspective much like classical columns.

Like genius, all was simple. Businesslike but never hurried.

Unpretentious, for pretension would have been a step down for the Galatoire’s that I remember. (I refuse even to admit that Galatoire’s now has added an upstairs dining room, let alone ever step into it. Change is the enemy here and I will not treat with it.)

Nor have the chefs lost their skill. On the contrary, the trout, whether meuniere or amandine, remains superb, the shrimp exalted by its remoulade, the spinach sauteed to (but not over) perfection, and the potatoes Brabant fine, or at least they doubtless were until being served too late.

As for the potatoes au gratin, a lady of taste at our table declares them the best she’s ever had. The bread pudding for desert was neither bread nor pudding but ambrosia and nectar barely diminished by the perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream on top….

And yet, and yet, change had happened while my back was turned: The waiter volunteers that one of the dishes I inquire after (the Court-Bouillon) is the worst thing on the menu, a piece of intelligence one of Galatoire’s veteran retainers would have imparted worldlessly, needing only a barely raised Gallic eyebrow to let me know I’d really meant to order the bouillabaisse or crawfish etouffee.

Once upon a time the waiters at Galatoire’s were as invisible as they were indispensable. Water, crusty little loaves of French bread, dinnerware, plain white napkin … each would appear as if by magic just when needed.

Now, when our waiter neglects to bring a fork for the main course, he makes a wisecrack (“Gosh, you want everything, don’t you?”) and expects me to be amused.

Please. It is the restaurant that should be familiar, not the waiter. For a good waiter, familiarity would be a decided step down. Like Dr. Johnson choosing to bandy civilities with his Sovereign. There is no higher office than to serve, and educate, others.

Then there is the clientele; they all seem preposterously young to me (I can’t imagine why) and given to breaking out in Happy Birthday every 10 minutes. This can’t be the Galatoire’s of my burnished memory but some inexact counterfeit. Once upon a time that now suddenly seems long ago, every patron, however young and unformed or old and sated, became an aristocrat, every woman an heiress, and children were seen but scarcely heard. How the mighty have fallen.

It was all enough to bring back a disappointing experience on another trip to New Orleans when, on a dark and stormy night, I was faithless to Galatoire’s and decided to take a lady I very much wanted to impress to another famed establishment. We were still dripping wet as we put our umbrellas aside and were seated at the worst table in the house, just inside a door that kept being swept open as every new customer and gust of wind, rain and general foulness swept in. We’d drawn a young waiter who explained that this was his first night, so he didn’t know the menu. We’d have to go solo.

But the worst of the indignities was the constant stream of beautiful people who came by our table to be greeted immediately and effusively by the maitre d’ before being ceremoniously ushered into some private salon in the back that was clearly not for the likes of us. What could I say? I was reduced to leaning over to my companion and whispering, “Clearly, my dear, they don’t know who I am.”

And now Galatoire’s doesn’t, either. A great restaurant can survive a hurricane or two, but not ordinary indifference.

© 2008 TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.