The Restaurant Refugee

The pimply faced twinks who sit in their parents’ basement and write malicious code for computer viruses have motivations that are largely beyond my understanding.  I am sure that when they get hoped-up on Mountain Dew and Ritalin that they have animated chat sessions with their friends to brag about the uber-cool coding they just finished.  They cost the world economy billions of dollars a year in lost productivity and they think that’s hip – fine.  They are not my problem.  The demented asshats who design adware viruses, however, reflect a particular kind of stupid.

By their inverted logic, if sufficiently pestered by pop-up ads, a victim will submit and purchase something from one of their bottom dwelling clients.

It started innocently enough – an email forwarded from my Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist Friend to a political video I had to see.  One accidental click led me down a path to computer hell.  Adware viruses burrowed deep into my operating system and bombarded me with advertisements for the next 60 hours.  I utilized every technical trick in my not insignificant arsenal to no avail.  Uninstall this, delete that, restart. Rinse. Repeat.  For. Hours.  The affair that began Sunday afternoon finally ended on Tuesday night. 

Dear Adware Idiots, and Lowlife Clients, if I ever see you or your clients, first I’m going to kick your ass and then I send you a bill for my time.  What makes no sense to me is that even if I wanted the sleazy services you provide, I would rather take a flame thrower to my own cock than buy something from you.  Surely there is a special place in hell reserved for your kind.

I have been paying rapt attention to the goings-on with the Financial Bailout Legislation.  I read the Washington Post from cover to cover every day, the Times (NY, not that fish wrap known as the Washington Times*) on Wednesday and Sundays; and NPR keeps me company when I am working from home.  I have supplemented my usual sources of information with the Wall Street Journal, NYT everyday, Slate.com and a couple of other sources – time permitting.  I understand the problems in our current financial climate, hell, I explained it to one of my financially challenged friends in about 15 minutes and without the use of a whiteboard, graph, or extremely esoteric terms associated with financial engineering.

I’ve listened to the politicians and the pundits, sat silently digesting the opinions of leading world economists, watched both of our presidential candidates demonstrate a barely cursory understanding of the situation during their debate.  The thing that disturbs me the most – and there are more to choose from than bloggers with an opinion – is the lack of discussion regarding reasonable contraction.

Lubricating the credit market to ensure that the world economy continues to operate is necessary, and the morally responsible course of action.  However, the focus on “keeping main street Americans in their homes and protecting the value of their homes” is an economically backward concept.  One need not be an economist** to understand that home values have risen at an unreasonable rate nor to comprehend stabilizing the value of housing at an artificially high and unsustainable level would prolong the crisis.

This situation sucks for people all over the country who bought houses at inflated prices and with mortgages they could not afford. But over-paying for a house whose price is being recalibrated by the market is not really a good reason for the government to jump on your financial grenade.   Yet no politician is willing to state the politically difficult but economically unequivocal fact that bubbles must contract – even ones that are going to cause Main Street to defer their American Dream.

* I don’t hate the Washington Times because of the politics of their editorial board, but because the writing is bad.

** but I do have an academic background in the subject.

23 Random things crossing my mind lately

1. Meeting women at an art museum on Sundays in football season isn’t quite as easy as shooting fish in a barrel; but only because you have to first convince them that you are straight.
2. I think voters who are undecided at this late date just like the attention.
3. Libertarians are rejoicing
4. Anyone who uses the desire to have a beer with a candidate as a basis for voting is not welcome to my scotch.
5. How many times can the little boy in the oval room cry wolf?
6. USC really… you got your asses handed to you by the Beavers?  I am a huge beaver fan, but come on, seriously?
7. I will be smiling all day tomorrow with happy thoughts for this lady and her groom.
8. Mark it was so nice to chat with you last night; and thank you for your service.
9. Though I am not the biggest fan of televisions in restaurants, when said TVs do not have volume or closed captioning that reflects a particular kind of stupid.  Are trying to appeal to the lip-reading market segment?
10. Hanging with my Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist friend is a delight.  Hanging with OSSL and his fully sleazy boss and colleagues made me want to take shower.
11. Phillips After Five – Among the coolest ways to spend the first Thursday of the month
12. I am addicted to my StatCounter
13. How is it possible that in 2008 we still have a professional sports team named the Redskins?
14. I still have a crush on Grace Van Owen and the classic BMW she drove in the first two seasons.
15. This week I celebrated the birthdays of John Coltrane, Bruce Springstien, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.  It’s not too late for you.  You have three easy toasts this evening.
16. I broke out the power suit, the write me a check tie, and the I’m kind of a big deal cufflinks yesterday – and still didn’t land the client.  This economy is harshing my mellow.
17. This weather makes me want to build a fort in my living room and watch movies all day… while eating cupcakes.
18. Since LivLuv has declared it TMI Week, I lost my virginity in a teenage cliché – the back of my car.
19. I am not very good at TMI apparently.
20. Going to the opera opening night solo is not a good idea.
21. Dave, since our last email exchange about theme music I have narrowed it to three bands: Joshua Redman before he lost his mind with that electronic tangent, Trane’s 1952 band, or Chuck Brown’s Second Chapter Band.
22. How cool would it be to have theme music?
23. Writing this list is a blatant admission that I am dealing with writer’s block.

When I want to go to a bar/lounge 9 times out of 10 I want to sip, and sup, someplace swank. Oh, but that 10th time, I want to go to an old fashioned dive bar – a good jukebox, faded vinyl booths, and crusty bartenders that usually call everyone champ or hon. my favorites, in no particular order…

The Tune-Inn, 3^rd and Penn., Capitol Hill – this place is the perfect anti-dote to bars packed with hill staffers who can’t seem to talk about anything but politics. The drinks are stiff but the regulars aren’t.  During one visit here I found myself at a table with a notable playwright,  a PhD holding bike messenger, and a VP for a national bank chain – I wish I had tape recorder going that night.

The Raven, 3100 block of Mount Pleasant Street, mount pleasant – great jukebox with an eclectic range of rock’n'roll and old motown, and no credit cards accepted. The Raven in specific and Mount P. in general have gotten a tad bit too popular for my tastes on the weekends, but it is still the Dean amongst DC Dives.

Fox & Hound, 1527 17^th NW, Dupont Circle – you have to love a place where a Vodka-Tonic is a large glass of booze and a small bottle of tonic.

Lil’ Pub, 7^th and Penn., Capitol Hill – fashioned from an old Little Tavern (anyone else have fond memories of those grease palaces?) this place is always dark even if you are drinking with the hard-cores at 2pm on a bright Tuesday afternoon.   A horrible pool table dominates the back room – don’t ever play One Handed Tony for money.

Toledo Lounge, 18^th between Belmont and Columbia, Adams Morgan – with a burger that is better than it has to be, a decent beer list, a spectacular juke box, and socio-economically diverse clientele I have long been a fan of this place.  Add-in the rainy day discounted drinks (“When It Rains We Pour” a sign declares) and this place is a clearly a Joint.

Polly’s Café, U Street between 13^th and 14^th NW – This place is at its best when the weather is cold enough for the fireplace to be going.  The underground hipness (the kind of hip that would never call itself hip) of this place has waned since it opened in the early 90s but it remains a great place to wrap yourself in exposed brick walls, a good jukebox, and a proper pint of Guinness.

The Argonaut, 1433 H Street, NE, Atlas District – it is difficult to include a place with food this good on a list of dive bars, but the feel of the place dives as well as a glass jawed fighter who has a gambling problem.

Jimmy Valentine’s Lonely Hearts Club, Bladensburg Road NE, Atlas District – this places earns its spot on this list, if for no other reason, because of their self-description: “[O]ur bar’s not for everyone but we’re pretty friendly despite not liking most people.”

I got pretty well smacked around the table at my regular pool game last night.  In a very obscure game loosely based on snooker principals, I was down 36 to 20 in a race to 50 – somewhat akin to being down 6 runs in the bottom of the ninth inning of a baseball game.  I had just rattled the seven ball around the corner pocket, the ball, in seeming solidarity with most of my shots that night, stubbornly refused to fall.  Shaking my head I walked away from the table to the bar and took a sip of bourbon.  My friend, Jersey John, declared “Refugee, it’s just not your night.”

“John, it’s fine.  I have him right were I want him.”

“Really, Refugee, where is that?”

“Right behind me with my pants around my ankles, but at least I know were he is.*”

* a line shamelessly borrowed from this movie

I had a serious bicycle accident in my teenage years.  I spent a week in intensive care but at the time of my accident all I wanted to do was stand-up and walk-it-off.  There were a couple of people fussing around me when John Coltrane ran to the group. 

“Take it easy, son.  I’m a doctor; I saw what happened and I’ve called an ambulance.  You need to be still now.” His baritone was soothing. 

“Trane?” I feebly asked.

“Yes, son just lay still now.”

I awoke several hours and several tubes in my body later.  Still groggy, I looked around for Dr. Coltrane to no avail.

Two weeks later, released from the hospital and mostly ambulatory, I returned to the accident site.  I knocked on doors wanting to thank Dr. Trane.  There were no doctors who lived on that block, or the next.

Maybe it was the spirit of Trane or more likely it was the hallucinogenic effects of pain.  Either way, Happy Birthday John Coltrane – you are one of my favorite things.

I’ve admitted that I am a prototypical romantic.  What I’ve never disclosed is that it took me years – almost twenty of them – to make the cognitive and emotional distinctions between romance for romance’s sake and romance inspired by another.  For too long in my life, my imagination conjured the romantic notion and it was proffered for the next or current woman in my life.  In essence, I was a romance whore and used women as receptacles of my gestures. 

The love note I wrote because I wanted to turn a phrase.  The quarter in the jewelry box engraved with instruction to call me whenever.  The earrings purchased because I remembered the mention of some obscure designer.  The orchids.  The dinners.  The walks under the harvest moon.  All were actions sometimes born of the cognitive rather than the emotional.

In the same way that writer’s block makes we wonder if I have exhausted my supply of meaningful words, a woman who doesn’t inspire my inner romantic used to make me wonder if I have hit my quota of gestures grand and small.  I now understand that lack of inspiration to be simply a lack of inspiration.

This weekend reminded me of the desire to be inspired and to inspire, of the importance of not wasting romance. 

That is a litmus equation where I must solve for variables on each side. Fortunately for me, John Coltrane swooped down on his saxaphone and taught me the formula.

In a move of management brilliance, my local market has been “reorganized and refreshed.”  I can’t find things and neither can the formally very helpful clerks.  One afternoon I am helplessly cruising the aisles in an effort to find the last item on my list – I think it was aluminum foil – when I run into Rachel, the first woman I dated after grad school.  She and I remained friends over the years – the occasional dalliance aside.  She is married now; had I been a more attracted to her, she might have been married to me.  It was always a pleasure to see Rachel.

Walking from the market I run into PLA, not terribly shocking given that this market has the closest common denominators of quality and value for both of us.  We chat for a bit.  She peeks in my tote and flirtatiously but not seriously asks what time she should arrive for dinner.  We ended without clear reason.  There was no crystallizing moment, just a realization that we both wanted love and we weren’t in it.

The next day I passed Tina at a hipster coffeeshop.  Tina and I went on two dates, if you count the booze fueled night after a softball game as one.  We had danced around each other for some time while one or both of us dated other people.  The first night adrenaline, opportunity, availability, and alcohol intersected and we found ourselves making-out like teenagers in the darkened corner of a beer soaked, flip cup playing bar.  She arrived for our first real date wearing a skirt and a wife-beater tank – perfect for pub crawling not so good for the restaurant where we dined.  Did we stop dating because she was underdressed, no; but it was the first part of an evening that collapsed under expectations.

Crossing paths with three ex’s in 24 hours got me wondering about the reasons I stopped dating people particularly the superfluous reasons.  After a mostly thorough inventory of dates and relationships past, here are some of my favorite, more unusual reasons.

One inch high English block lettered tattoo “Built for Speed” across the small of her back – laughing when naked can be good, laughing at a woman when naked not so much.

Using the word “conversate” without a hint of irony – not the last time my language snobbery would keep me from getting laid

Admiration for Clarence Thomas – I can date across the aisle but all things have limits

Having four cats named after each of the Charmed Ones – it wasn’t just my allergies that sent me running

A Barbie doll collection… kept under glass – everyone has their passions; I wish I had a better explanation for why this one sent me fleeing

Failure to send a thank you of any kind after attending one of my dinner parties – manners matter to me

What unusual moments, issues, differences have felled budding interactions for you?

My marriage lasted about as long as a cup of coffee and was a mistake from the start.  When we finally separated I was school girl giddy and wasted no time in becoming a cliché of the about to be divorced man.  New place with sex appeal to spare – check.  A monstrously large television my wife never would have let me buy – check.  Shiny new sports car – check.  Hearing Last Call as the final evening refrain almost every night – check.  Dating anyone wearing a skirt – oh hells yeah, check.

I never paused to miss my wife because I didn’t miss her.  [Ed. Note the next sentence was a Very Expensive lesson] My ex-wife was a rebound relationship that lasted too long and every spousal connection was functionally severed long before the conversation that formally ended it.  No, I didn’t miss her but I missed the relationship.  The shopping and partying were the poorly disguised mechanics of coping to anyone that was paying attention – I wasn’t really paying attention.

One rainy Saturday I declared a movie-marathon-maintenance day – pizza, beer, and motion pictures On-Demand.  The second movie was The Story of Us.  Along with using my sister’s mascara to enhance my moustache before a seventh grade dance, watching a movie about a couple experiencing difficult times with their lives and love, is on the list of dumbest things I have ever done.  It didn’t take long before my emotions went nuts.  I sat on my couch, tears running down my face racing each other to the floor, and thoroughly lacked the ability to process why.

Soon after that day, I began having the expensive conversations.

In addition to prompting me towards that step, there is one part of the movie that has always stayed with me.  During dinner the Jordan family would go round the table and share the High-Low of their respective days.

All of this came back to me when I was debating, wondering, if I had anything to write today.  I caught a glimpse of the weather – High 88, low 62. 

High of the Weekend – saving an over-cooked pork tenderloin I made while doing “Drunk Cooking” after a night of cocktails.  Mmmmm, pork, egg, & cheese breakfast biscuits.

Low of the Weekend – ruining a pork tenderloin because I fell asleep while attempting drunken cooking.

Feel free to share your own highs and lows from the weekend in the comments, or more importantly, share them with some one in your family.

I had no idea what I wanted this blog to be when it started.  I publicly and privately expressed nonchalance regarding reader numbers, an expression which rang about 98.6% true.  While I won’t be quoting Sally Field, as my total number of hits recently eclipsed a substantial and round number, I am humbled and honored by all of you who read my slice of the internet.  Thank you.

On another note, for anyone wondering if you and I would get along, I have added a handy calculator for you.

I generally discount the term favorite; however with the qualifications on this list, I am happy to present first installment of the Restaurant Refugee’s Favorite Five Friday.

Favorite Things That Various Ex’s Have Pilfered from Me I Have Left at Their Places

1. My high school letterman sweater
2. A pair of antique Tiffany cufflinks
3. The best cashmere sweater ever
4. A limited edition Parker fountain pen
5. My dignity

Favorite Bloggers I’ve Never met but with Whom I’d love to Cocktail

1. The Barmaid and her girlfriend
2. The improbably logically named Candy Sandwich
3. The Blogess
4. The entire Daily Kos Crew
5. The Wonkette

Favorite Moments when I Smoked a Cigar

1. After I finally got the corner office
2. After I got married
3. After I got divorced
4. After I chose life over career
5. When I met this woman

Favorite Things I miss About the 80s

1. No cell phones
2. High School football games
3. Reality Television free programming
4. Robert Hoderney – I’ve never had a better teacher, mentor, or role model for how to be a stand-up guy – R.I.P.
5. A black Michael Jackson

Favorite Lessons Learned in the Last Year

1. When you finally meet the one, even if s/he breaks your heart, you realize that all the “ones that got away” weren’t actually ones.
2. Never pass on the opportunity to pay the honest compliment
3. There is nothing wrong with a principled line in the sand
4. Among the things that are great about working for yourself, the ability to have a beer… in your pajamas… at two in the afternoon… is near the top
5. Blogging is cheaper than therapy

Favorite Reasons Why Cocktail Should Be Used as a Verb

1. Sidecar
2. Manhattan
3. Long Kiss Goodnight
4. Santero
5. Bellini

Favorite Women I have Kissed

1. Beth – I know that you were and still are a lesbian, but damn I am waiting for your seven year itch to return
2. Double M – a redheaded art teacher who plays sax in an all girl band – my only defense is the stupidity of youth
3. Maureen, Maureen – a Sade song, but we never could make anything work outside the bedroom
4. LP – you are the reason I started this little slice of internet therapy
5. The Blogger Who Shall Rename Nameless – I wish you blue birds in the spring, and I wish that I had the tools to climb your protective walls

Favorite Musicians You Probably Don’t Know

1. Terri Lynne Carrington – Arsenio Hall’s former band leader has a smoking hot jazz band
2. Nikki Gonzales – how I wish that you would reunite with your brother.  The clichéd phrase “greater than the sum of your parts” comes to mind.
3. Ira Gonzales – how I wish that you would reunite with your sister.  The clichéd phrase “greater than the sum of your parts” comes to mind.
4. Alfredo Mojica – an extroidinary percussionist who I once saw play salt and pepper shakers to AfroBlue
5. Kevin Spacey – yeah, you know him; but did you know that he can really swing

Favorite Regrets… I’ve Had a Few; But Then Again Too Few to Mention… Except Here

1. Not taking a job with AOL in 1995 because I didn’t want the commute
2. Never having dinner at Jean Louis
3. Never telling Tracy Henderson from undergrad how I felt about her because of she had a loser boyfriend… who happened to be a teammate of mine on the football team
4. Never having served in the armed forces – mostly because I hate when right wingers who have served use that service as a trump card in an argument and I have no match
5. The previous post on this teeny slice of the internet wherein I took the nuclear option when someone angered me.

Marissa, thank you for your comment on my recent post regarding people who loathe DC.  While there were some valid and logical points in there, you wrapped them in so much piss, vinegar, vulgarity, and false logic that many get lost.

My point was that if you don’t know this city – don’t know the specific things I cited – you don’t know this city.  Criticism of things you don’t know with blanket statements, generalizations and absolutes is patently absurd. 

You dismiss museums – I will never waste words in defense of art to those who think that art needs a defense.  You clearly misinterpret the mention of one bar, in the comments, to represent it as the ONLY cool place in DC.  I choose to believe that you deliberately misrepresented truth in an effort to make a point because for me to state the alternative is even less polite. 

You also falsely suggested that your opinion was devalued as a fad.  That was another contrivance of your own perception made because it was conversationally expedient towards making your standard issue talking points.

You suggested that I hate you because you have a differing opinion and then called me a jackass for doing so.  Let me be clear – I don’t hate many people, and you have not done enough to earn a place on that list.  You choose to read hate into a post that had nothing to do with you – does your narcissism know any bounds?

I don’t hate you but I don’t like you either not because your thoroughly entitled opinion differs from mine, but because:

You’re rude

Your thought process is thin

Your inference about men and “frenemies” was clearly homophobic

Your writing is a cliché wrapped in slices of low hanging fruit

You either don’t understand the sociological implication of using the word uppity or you choose to ignore it.

And because rape jokes are never funny, you self-loathing anti-feminist

You have your corner of the internet to opine, vent, rant, whatever.  However, you chose to come to my little corner and be rude to me.  I am all for intelligent discourse, and your comment barely passed the laugh test there, however I will not tolerate being treated rudely in this little corner any more than I would in my own home.

I have a standing Ring Game on Tuesday evenings – five or six friends and I gather to play pool, gamble a little, drink a lot, and generally bullshit about the world and its crazy human inhabitants.  Cigar smoke hangs heavy in the air and the bourbon flows freely. 

James, a displaced New Yawker with a fancy law firm gig and the predictable attitude and intelligence of a Jets fan, is relatively new to the group.  He plays a serious game of 8-Ball, but I can usually take him at One-Pocket because he lacks the patience to grind out the plodding game.  I had just sunk a sweet two rail bank shot to take the lead for good in the last game of this round when talk turned to DC versus his beloved New Yawk.  James hates DC; and he used the latest weekend to escape its confines.  So he was in rare form in discussing this country backwater utterly lacking in sophistication and the amenities of a modern metropolis.

I let his statements stand unchallenged though they grated against my sensibilities.

As rainbow hued balls were racked for the last round of games for the evening (straight pool short races to 25,) James launched into the women of my hometown – “money grubbing douches” were his exact words.

Civic pride and my inherent desire to stand on a soap box and tamp down an argument I find objectionable are getting hard to control.

When James said that DC’s restaurant scene “sucked,” he laid the critical straw.

“If you hate DC so much, go back to New York or any where else that will make you happy; but don’t stand around here spouting ridiculousness about a city you don’t know.  If you ever traveled outside of your yuppified corners of the city, you might see a million things and people you’ve missed.  The people who offend you are a bunch of khaki wearing carpet-baggers just like you.  You never meet real Washingtonians because they exist outside of your myopic comfort zone. Tell me, Jimmy, when was the last time you went to the Smithsonian?  Walked around Eastern Market? Ordered a drink in bar where everyone didn’t look exactly like you?  Been to an art gallery, the Kennedy Center?  Ate a fucking half-smoke? Have you ever had drink at F. Scott’s grave?  Do you even know where Blues Alley is, or Great Falls, or the C&O?  Have you ever taken a run in Rock Creek, or been to the Zoo for christsakes.   Jimmy, you live in a city with great art, museums, restaurants, and culture you have just ignored.  You love NYC so much, but you must love the city for the things you’ve heard you can do, not the things you actually do?  Because they’re all here you just would rather complain.

“And oh yeah, of course you think all the women here are “douches;” because you’re a conceited loud-mouth prick and, if the reports from our friend Sydney are accurate, a cheap date and a lousy lay.

“So I’ll make a deal with you Jimmy.  Here’s the thirty bucks I took off you tonight; that ought to buy you a Peter Pan Bus ticket to take your happy-ass back up I-95.

“I need another drink*.”

Women are crazy and Doods are Dumb – an exaggerated statement from my friend LivLuv, but how exaggerated?  Her post was funny and pithy and tinged with truth, and explicitly invited response from the male side of the blogosphere (I strongly encourage reading her post before continuing not just because this will make more sense but because, like I said, it is pithy and funny.)  I wish I had it in me to respond in kind but a more serious part of my brain is in charge at the moment.

The big reason that women are crazy and men are dumb is that most of us have never learned how to have a healthy romantic relationship.  That we humans are able to overpopulate the earth is sheer genetic instinct and dumb fucking luck.

When did you learn to be one part of a relationship?  On the job training doesn’t count. 

Most people receive their relationship training though a series of trial and error dalliances – negative learning.   Learning that a particular behavior does not result in whatever preconceived notion of relationship success we might have in our heads.  Did you learn through watching your parents?  For those of us fortunate enough to have two parents, as a child, you are never truly privy to the inner workings of your parent’s relationship.  If your parents lacked the common sense or modesty to have some conversations away from your cherubic eyes and ears, was that really the healthy relationship you wish to emulate?

No reasonable person would suggest we learn by watching/reading/listening to contemporary media – a soft core slurpee of dysfunctional relationships if ever there was one.    

Did you learn from watching your friends’ relationships?  At best a situation similar to watching parental units, at worst this method is more negative learning.

When did you learn?

How to communicate, what to communicate, and when to communicate it

How to have a fair fight; knowing that arguments will come there may be no more important long-term relationship skill

How to merge lives previously spent apart

The most basic of all relationship skills – identifying that which you want in a partner

How to make decisions with the interests of someone else being more important than you own

The point at which their interests can / should become equal and occasionally more important than your own

Because we make our way in the romantic world pinballing through interactions gathering kernels of knowledge (sometimes negatively learned, occasionally positively acquired) sometimes women are crazy because they have adapted to a hostile environment and built protective systems.  Sometimes men are dumb because we have never learned or tried to learn how to behave in relationships as our goals were more short term.

LivLuv’s premise that a great relationship is one where he understands her particular crazy and she gets his brand of dumb is sound, and funny.  I would add that there is some homework we all need to complete to aid with that process.

Getting a group of sommeliers in the same room with a score plus four cases of magnificent wines is the start of joke along the lines of how many somms does it take to open a nebecanazer of 62’ Petrus*.  There will be stories traded, cigarettes snuck, jobs offered, and more gossip than a room full of fourteen year old girls.   And so it was when I was invited to pour wine for this Charity Event.

While our chefs prepared a five course feast for a few hundred people, we diligently double decanted almost 300 bottles of spectacular wines in preparation for the dinner.  We were working from the administrative quarters of the estate.  The four guest cottages were occupied.  We could have worked from the tree house – it was bigger than my last apartment – but it lacked an elevator.  Thus our prep-work and breaks between pouring wine for each course, was conducted in the Estate Administrator’s Residence – think small townhouse in the inner suburbs.

After we poured wine for the cocktail hour, and just before the first course for dinner, our dinner arrived.  It was a reminder of the punishment for bad chefs – catering hell.  It was barely edible.  There was the grumbling one would expect from people who know and love food when they are served meals that hearken to high school cafeteria fare.  The wines deserve a better backdrop was the murmured refrain.

Thirty minutes later salvation arrived in the familiar red heating bag of the Domino’s Delivery. 1982 Rothschild and a slice of pepperoni was the best wine pairing I have ever tasted. 

*If that joke made sense to you, you are a serious wine geek.