Caviar is one of those foods that we’re supposed to love. Costly and rare, it’s considered the height of luxury and sophisticated dining. Receive a complimentary blini topped with a dollop of creme fraiche and sprinkling of tiny, flame-colored, salty orbs and you might think, “Wow! Caviar! This restaurant knows how to make its diners feel special!” Then again, you might also think, “Gross. Fish eggs.” For years I’ve felt neutral about caviar. More often than not, I’ve consumed tough, gritty, low quality roe, the stuff that makes people say, “Eew. Fish eggs.” On very rare occasions I’ve sampled the luxurious, melt-in-your-mouth delicacy that makes people drool. Two weeks ago I had the latter experience when sent on a mission to obtain caviar for a friend’s Scandinavian-themed party. Dressed in my workday uniform of jeans, black sweater, faded black t-shirt and running shoes, I schlepped over to Caviar Russe in Midtown. Up the marble staircase I climbed, with each step wondering if I shouldn’t have worn something slightly nicer or cleaner. Seriously, what had I …