A Night's Meal at the Opera Philip Greenberg for The New York Times Fred Mills, the general manager of the Grand Tier Restaurant in the Metropolitan Opera House since 1987, standing at a table of patrons during intermission, while other members of the evening's audience look out from the balconies. WHEN I was growing up, most girls I knew went to Lincoln Center for "The Nutcracker." I went to the opera. Specifically, to Metropolitan Opera rehearsals with my father, who didn't think twice about pulling me out of school. The first one, when I was in fifth grade, was "Madama Butterfly," with Teresa Stratas. Let other children tarry with visions of the Sugar Plum Fairy. We cut straight to heartbreak and suicide. I loved it. Preparing a table for intermission service at the Met's Grand Tier Restaurant. During intermission, we sat on the floor of the lobby with most of the rest of the audience and ate tuna fish sandwiches my mom had packed. I loved that, too. A few times, when my dad was flush, we dressed up and went to the Met at night, with my mom and my brother, Greg. Although I didn't get to miss school, this experience was even better. Before the performance, we ate dinner at the Grand Tier Restaurant at the Met, one flight up from the lobby. It was, and is, right out there in the open, up front, overlooking the fountain, perched between the two iconic Chagall murals. I remember exactly what I had: French onion soup, with its lid of gooey cheese; duck à l'orange, crispy and sweet; chocolate mousse topped with whipped cream. As we ate, the tiers of the Met's balconies opposite us filled with patrons who gazed down, some using opera glasses to get a better view. There is nothing quite like hundreds of strangers staring at two potentially fidgety children as an incentive to behave. It was my mother's dream come true. But the best part came at meal's end. As the gong sounded its warning for the curtain's rise, the rush of anticipation swelled beneath the sparkling chandeliers. Women bobbed up the dark red-carpeted stairs like balloons in their floor-length gowns. Faces flushed, purses clutched, elbows steered in the right direction. It felt like a very old, very grand dance that enveloped us, too, and I felt swept into my seat right along with them. Although, back then, you needed to finish your meal before curtain, these days, most diners treat the Grand Tier as a private club, leaving their tables to be reset during the first act before returning for dessert at intermission. The chocolate mousse has become a chocolate soufflé. I learned all this when I prevailed upon Fred Mills, the general manager of the Grand Tier, to let me spend an evening with him and his staff to see how the place works from the inside. Along with the Grand Tier, Mr. Mills manages the Met's employees" cafeteria and catering services; on New Year's Eve, he will preside over the annual black-tie gala that culminates in a sit-down dinner for 400. And that's in addition to the Grand Tier's usual dinner earlier in the evening. He oversees eight managers and 100 employees. Mr. Mills, 68, has run the Grand Tier since 1987, when Restaurant Associates held the contract. It transferred to the Patina Group in 2006. After a successful career with Marriott in Washington, he began in New York as the general manager of the Sea Grill in Rockefeller Center. Joseph Volpe, then the Met's general manager, got married there, and Mr. Mills supervised his wedding reception. Mr. Volpe was sufficiently pleased to persuade Restaurant Associates to transfer Mr. Mills to the Grand Tier, where - a brief flirtation with retirement aside - he has been ever since. On the evening I joined him, "Tosca" was to begin at 8. The restaurant opens two hours before the Met's curtain time and will serve anyone with a ticket to a Lincoln Center performance that day. Because most diners arrive en masse, its routine is as meticulously choreographed as a ballet. Servers queue behind the maître d'hôtel and peel off to show guests to their tables as the names of each party are announced. That chorus line of servers repeats itself at the first intermission, when time is of the essence; the break, roughly 30 minutes, is reasonable for those having dessert, though some people gobble both appetizers and entrees. Only dessert and appetizers are served during the second intermission. As the servers led diners to their tables, Mr. Mills, a slight man with a benevolent presence, stood near the entrance murmuring, "Welcome." Though he looks mild-mannered, his eye is sharp; he moved nimbly through the crowd, pulling out a chair, adjusting a napkin, making the perfect slightly more perfect.