BOSTON — Ritz. Ritzy. Puttin’ on the Ritz.

If you grew up lace-curtain Irish in West Roxbury, the Ritz-Carlton was the top of the heap, A-No. 1. It was the spot where movie stars and millionaires stayed. It had a doorman, for God’s sake. It had the ultimate address, the corner of Arlington and Newbury streets. Since 1927, it has offered “unparalled standards of excellence.”

Cool.

But no one ever STAYED there. Or certainly no one I ever knew. Maybe the Sheraton on the best night of your life. Then I met Ted Cohen, who has this mysterious hold over some of the most attractive women you have ever seen. He said whenever the relationship started leaking, he would book a weekend at the Ritz. It was terribly expensive, but it worked, at least for a while, he said. His mother and father stayed at the Ritz one weekend a year.

Now I knew someone who actually stayed at the Ritz.

That was all in my mind when the trip to Gettysburg started falling apart. My significant other and I had both seen the movie, read “Killer Angels” and decided to start a vacation fund to celebrate our 15th anniversary (dating, not marriage) in Pennsylvania. Saving and planning are not in my vocabulary, but they are on the first page of hers. She extorted money from me each payday and like magic, we had $750.

We had the money, honey, but she didn’t have the time. She claimed her work schedule now wouldn’t allow a week’s vacation in June. My friends suggested she couldn’t bear to spend a whole week with me. She presented me with a challenge to plan “the greatest trip ever” to celebrate our unmarried 15 years together.

Never one to shrink from a challenge (or a good time) I called the Ritz. The “regular” rooms were $280 a night. If you wanted a “garden view,” it was $435 a night. Club rooms were $415 and suites were $415. A corner suite with a garden view was $695, about the total of my monthly mortgage. I couldn’t believe it. I spent less than that for my first three cars. I had to hang up, laugh my head off, then call back. I was no piker. I took the garden view deal.

We checked in during a historic driving rainstorm that almost shut the city down. I flashed my American Express and they welcomed us in, handing over keys to the fifth-floor room. We opened the door and gasped. The bed was bigger than my Camden bedroom. The garden view was perfect in the rain and mist, and there was champagne on ice, a gift from a classy friend.

We sat and watched the rain, sipping champagne.

Ritzy.

We made reservations for 7 p.m. in the main dining room, then canceled when we couldn’t find what we wanted on the menu. We moved the anniversary party to what they call the cafe, on the first floor. The maitre d’ hotel was Gerald Small, who came complete with an Irish brogue. We argued over the correct pronunciation of my name as he showed us to a window table. Watching the traffic, we very casually ordered the meals. I, for one, wanted this to last forever. I had the scrod ($23). She had the chicken ($26). The prices were not that much more than Marcel’s at the Samoset or Jessica’s, two of our favorite Rockland-area restaurants. Both meals were excellent.

Our fellow diners included a family dressed in dashikis and accompanied by a huge man with a radio plug in his ear. We assumed this was a bodyguard for an African ambassador. The service was fastidious, not stuffy. The Ritz staff treated us much better than most members of my family treat me. The staffers never let on that they knew we were hicks from Maine.

I had to sample the wine. The “house” Ivan Tamas cabernet and chardonnay ($8.50 per glass) were spectacular to a journeyman’s taste. The meal was $88, a total we had matched or exceeded at Jessica’s, the Samoset and the White Barn Inn in Kennebunkport. Not too bad.

But the piece de resistence was to come.

After the plates were cleared, the waiter came back to the table with a large plate. On it was a fabulous dessert, sent to the table by the Irish maitre d’. Carefully written on the plate in delicious frosting was “Happy 15th anniversary.”

Very Ritzy.

Much better than some Civil War battlefield.

After we retrieved our car from the doorman, we drove away down rainy Newbury Street and I computed that we had a few dollars left from the $750. I said it was a pretty good “once in a lifetime” one-night celebration.

I’m already thinking about the 20th anniversary. Maybe Paris.

At the Ritz.