The Restaurant Refugee

When I started this blog, I asked one friend for advice.  He told me the first thing I should do was buy the domain because “it has such caché and potential” he promised to help me get the whole thing working in exchange for booze (see I’m not the only one who work for liquid payment.)    

I followed instruction and purchased the domain.  Even though he completely flaked on me we were unable to coordinate our schedules I  finally got WordPress to make it work.  From this day forward, you can go to restaurantrefugee.com.  Feel free to change your links or readers, or not, they will still work*.  And yes this post is a blatant attempt to sprain my elbow while patting myself on the back for doing something surprisingly simple, but I never pretended to be the sharpest instrument in the drawer.

*Edited to Add: To further establish that minor technical achievements are meritorious for me, I am mistaken – you will need  to update your blog readers… I think.

One of my first bosses in the restaurant business had a favorite phrase: there’s no such thing as a problem only opportunity.  If you went to him in the middle of a shift and said “We have a problem at table 24,” he would correct you with a smug “What do we have at table 24?” repeating it until you understood that he wanted you to rephrase the situation describing it as an opportunity.  While he was in fact as big of a tool as you most likely imagine him, he was correct in asserting that most problems present opportunities rather than calamities.  It reinforced the veracity of my inner optimist.

When my Christmas Day Dinner client cancelled (with barely two days notice) the five course dinner* I had already started preparing, I looked for the silver lined opportunity.  I found it in the form of a reasonable flight to the Florida Keys.  It was a trip I needed after a year that has presented me with multiple, ahem, opportunities.  Unable to cajole any friends to embrace the logic of Ferris Bueller, I went solo to the airport on Christmas Eve with a suitcase filled with linen, sandals, and the one pair of flip flops I own.

I suffered the indignity of airport security and boarded the plane with knowledge that Hemmingway’s bar stool and a cold margarita was only a couple hours away.  After the first motionless hour, grumblings of discontent began to move through the cabin.  After a second hour on the tarmac, passenger complaints were as thick as the stale air inside the plane.  As we moved into the third hour, traveler mutiny was afoot.  Finally, the powers that were confirmed what we all had suspected – there would be no tropical breezes or margaritas for any of us this night.  Four and a half hours after arriving at the airport, I traveled only the distance to the gate and back to a cab.

Determined to find opportunity in this, I visited a few of my favorite bartenders who were working on this holiday eve.  Slow bars on days like this can occasionally produce headache inducing generosity.  Despite the low thud in my head, I awoke Christmas morning with thoughts of leaving on a jet plane, and holding court at a beachside bar.  Forty five minutes on the phone with my airline produced assurances of a seat on an early afternoon flight.  The ticketing agents looked at me like an alien as they apologized for the “miscommunication from the representative on the phone.”  There was no room on the plane for me.  Though if I wanted to fly to Newark, wait two hours, fly to Denver, wait three hours, and then fly to the Keys I could arrive sometime around 1am.  I declined.

There were no waves sing softly against a beach, no sarong clad women next to me, and there were no balmy breezes, but I did have my margarita and kept a lonely bartender company or maybe she kept mine.

* For the five curious food geeks out there, the menu was:

Cauliflower and Parsnip Bisque with Duck Sausage

Carpaccio of Wagyu Beef Tenderloin with Arugula Salad

Roasted Christmas Goose with Grape and Sweetbread Stuffing, and a Wild Mushroom Terrine

Mini Flourless Chocolate Cake with a Cognac Caramel Glaze

Selection of Cheese from Cowgirl Creamery with traditional accompaniments and warm truffled honey

Early Christmas evening I was standing on a midtown corner waiting for a taxi to ferry me to my unexpected holiday meal at the bar of one of the few restaurants open on this day. I was cranky with the airlines, the world, the forces of the universe, and anyone else on my mental hit-list who I deemed responsible for me not sipping margaritas from Hemingway’s bar stool in Key West, Florida (a story I will relate another time.) In my head, I was mapping the ventapeutic (therapeutic venting) blog post about my solo Christmas when a police cruiser jerked from a parking spot a few dozen yards behind me. The sirens wailed as the officer guided his car round a corner at very brisk clip – that is when I was jerked from my self-involved surliness to think about all of the people who work on this day.

Thank you to all of the soldiers, airmen, sailors, and marines who stand a shift today and every other day.

Thank you to the police officers, fire department, ambulance technicians who run towards trouble whenever it occurs as it surely does even on holidays.

Thank you to the doctors, nurses and hospital staff who stand at the ready to repair injuries. Extra special thanks to the doctor who gave me four stitches with baby blue thread to match my Christmas suit after my older sister pushed me into I slipped and fell on the coffee table on my fourth Christmas.

Thank you to the bus drivers, metro operators, and taxi drivers who get those who choose not to drive from place to place and do so safely.

Thank you to the 7-11 clerks, wine and spirit shop operators, convenience & grocery store staff who tend to our last minute “forgets.”

Thank you to the baristas who keep us caffeinated when we need a break from our families, or a place to read the paper for those who don’t celebrate this day. Extra thanks to Carlos, my favorite barista who greeted me with a warm smile and a complimentary Americano after he asked me why I was still in town.

Thank you to the hotel staff who are away from their families so that they can meet the needs of those who traveled to see theirs.

Thank you to the managers, bartenders, servers, bus staff, dishwashers, cooks, and chefs who prepare our meals, serve our drinks, and clean after us on this day. Extra thanks to Cindy, the redheaded bartender, who poured me perfect half and half after perfect half and half, kept my company while I wrote this, and boosted my ego with her flirtation.

As I am sure I am forgetting some, I end this missive with a blanket thank you to all those who work on this day so that we don’t have to.

I was extremely flattered when Kris of Not Yet a Girl, Not Yet a Wino asked me to guest post at her place, flattered and convinced that Kris must have been drinking at work or something.  After she convinced me that she was serious, I struggled to find a topic / waited for inspiration.  Over the course of me distracting her via g-chat, Kris suggested that I give some advice to having good dates in restaurants.  Take a minute to read my advice (geared towards men) if you wish; but more importantly I would highly encourage you to spend some time perusing her blog if you are not already familiar.  Kris is a delightful writer who paints lyrical pictures and has the ability to inspire tears and cheers in equal measure and more often than most she can do both in the same post.

After Yet Another Attorney Date left me sitting at Vidalia to enjoy an over priced Manhattan and an outrageously priced wine list, I reminded myself that getting stood-up is a good thing.  I blogged about the experience, again reminding myself that it was ultimately a good outcome.  I thought the chances were rather slim that there was a reasonable explanation for her behavior but on the off chance those reasons existed I sent an email.

Perhaps you were sitting at another place named Vidalia thinking the same things I was thinking. Perhaps you too had a cocktail or a glass of wine and kept looking at the door. Perhaps you too kept checking the email on your phone to see if some last minute change occurred. Perhaps you too finished your cocktail, two sections of the newspaper, and concluded that thirty minutes was enough time. Perhaps you too settled your tab and walked outside pausing to look both ways for a hurried date rushing to the restaurant. Perhaps we just missed each other in a completely logical and understandable manner. Perhaps you wrote Wednesday but thought Thursday.
Perhaps you saved me a great deal of time.

YAAD replied almost immediately and apologetically.  She wrote that her mind recorded the date for Thursday though she wrote Wednesday.  Her tone was sincere and she asked if there were any way to persuade me to meet her that evening. 

I’ve been on the other side of this (I once went to the wrong Ritz Carlton) and didn’t have plans for the evening, thus I agreed.  We opted for drinks at Mark and Orlando’s.  YAAD and I talked animatedly.  She is a very good conversationalist, practices a type of law I consider fascinating, and is just lovely in general.

The chemistry was not instant but neither was it non existent.  Our conversation evolved as two friends’ might but with a low simmer flame burning underneath.  Around the middle of our night, the disclosure of YAAD’s previously unmentioned status as a vegan doused that low flame for me but not my enthusiasm for knowing her.  We continued talking for more than hour after that – it’s not that I don’t like vegans, I just can’t imagine dating one.

Our evening ended cordially and with the energy of two people who have platonic affections but certainly not the other kind. 

As much vitriol as I had for Vidalia and their wine list, I have praise for Mark & Orlando’s.  Some might suggest the two have no basis for comparison as M&O’s is by comparison considerably more casual, the difference is philosophical.  The cooking at M&O’s is not as complex as Vidalia’s but it is soulful, careful, and very satisfying.  The wine service is not as elegant, the lips of the glasses not quite as thin but the wines are sourced with great care and priced reasonably.  Where as Vidalia seeks to return $100 for every $25 invested in their wine program, M&O is comfortable with a $60 return on the same investment. 

I am grateful that YAAD and I eventually connected as I hope that she will be a friend, but also because it gave me a chance to reacquaint myself with a restaurant that had fallen too far from my radar screen.

Twenty-something Bar Patron #1: Has your girlfriend ever walked in on you when you were rubbing one out?

Twenty-something Bar Patron #2: ummm, no.

TSBP1: Tracy went out with some of her friends for Girls Night last night.  She told me she was staying at her place, so I didn’t expect her.  About midnight she changed her mind, comes to my place and walks in on me while I’m multi-jacking…

TSBP2: Multi-jacking?

TSBP1: You know – jacking off while you’re doing something else.

TSBP2: What else can you do while jacking off?

TSBP1: Porn on the computer, MSNBC on the TV

TSBP2: Wouldn’t that make it poli-jacking?

I sent Yet Another Attorney Date an email suggesting four places for our first meeting.  She opted for the last place on the list, Vidalia.  I chose not read anything into the fact that she selected the most expensive place on the list and was eager to visit a place I had not been in almost a year.  I arrived a few minutes early and made myself comfortable at the far end of the bar. 

While the technically proficient but far from engaging bartender made drinks for a trio of post-work suits in the mildly stylish lounge, I looked over the by the glass wine offerings.  The prices were a shock to my sensibilities.  Instead I ordered a Makers Mark Manhattan Up and with a dash of the Fee Brothers West Indian Orange Bitters I spied sitting unloved on a bottom shelf of the bar.  My date was late so I went back to the wine list to occupy my time and satisfy my curiosity.

The WBG list was extensive – at least ten varieties each of red and white, and a solid smattering of sparklers and rosés.  I knew at least 90% of them and I was astonished at the grotesque price gouging.

It is not often that I publicly call attention to the failings of a restaurant.  However, I have heaped praise on Vidalia in this space prior and now the record requires correcting.  I have solid recall of the wholesale prices of each wine I knew on the list and Vidalia displayed profound greed in their cost structure.  DC restaurant industry standard is for a glass of wine to sell for around the wholesale price of the bottle. Vidalia, however, prices a glass at close to the RETAIL cost of a bottle further the average price of a glass of wine there is north of $15.

Their list, by the glass and bottle, is still one of the best in the country if one doesn’t look at the prices, but their prices scream exorbitant to anyone who knows wine well.

I was bothered by their list but not inspired to vent until I had finished my Manhattan, decided that I was getting stood-up, and got my tab.  My Manhattan which would have cost me $9 at the Capitol Grille, $10 at Citronelle, $11 at the Four Seasons or Mandarin Oriental Hotels, or $12 at Per Se was astoundingly $14 at Vidalia.  At that price, I expect a drink to give me a happy ending. 

Your pricing is simply a profane expression of greed and for that, Vidalia, you are off my list and my radar screen.  I get expensive, hell, I have a penchant for expensive, and I understand all of the costs associated with running a premier wine program, and a high-end restaurant because I have done it. Yet even I cannot imagine a justification for your prices or why your organization crossed the line into offensively expensive since my last visit. 

To my dear dozen readers, feel free to speculate about the fact that I was more angered by being over-charged than being stood-up.

When my bar pal’s girlfriend sent me a solicitous message through an online dating site I tried to straddle the line between excessive involvement and laissez faire friendship.  I sent Jackson a friendly email inviting him to watch football on Sunday; and Samone received a dispassionate reply to her email indicating that she must have forgotten the moment her boyfriend introduced us and that I looked forward to seeing him for drinks later in the weekend.  I thought I had struck the best balance available but I still wasn’t necessarily eagerly anticipating our Sunday meeting.

It was just before halftime of the smash mouth game between my Pittsburgh Steelers and the carpet-bagging Baltimore Ravens when Jackson mentioned that Samone was going to join us later.  At that point, my beer must have been the most interesting thing in the room because I focused on it until words formed in my brain.

“Jackson, I need you to let me talk for a minute.”

“Sure.”

“This is one of those times when I really wish I didn’t have to say anything…”

“Is this about the message you sent to Samone’s old dating profile?  She told me about that and trust me it’s not a big deal.”

I was being handed another opportunity to keep my pie hole shuttered.  Determined to take it, I replied “Well, I’m glad you two talked and everything’s everything.”

“Dude, we’re all cool” were Jackson’s (and I hoped everyone’s) final words on the matter.

I suspected that Samone spun the story to have me initiating contact and I was determined not to care.  This is their relationship; Jackson is a drinking buddy not a friend and more importantly there is no graceful exit for me.  Still I had no desire to be party to certain fraud when his girlfriend arrived, but no plausible reason for leaving with my Steelers on TV.  I tried not to consider the eventual and hoped Samone wouldn’t arrive until after the game.

Jackson and I talked football in general and this game specifically as the two defenses yielded almost nothing to the opposing offenses.  Going into the fourth quarter my Steelers were down six points and Samone walked into the bar – not sure which bothered me more.  She greeted both of us warmly and sat to Jackson’s left and placed her arm round his shoulder.

Idle chatter was interspersed with random shouts of “Go,” “Hit that guy” and other football expletives.  The game was going down to the wire – along with my patience for this situation – but my Steelers and my patience were winning. The rookie Ravens quarterback who has played over is head the entire season had no more magic in his arm and the final play was intercepted.  When the cheers had quieted Samone punctuated the moment with “I’m so glad the three of us can sit here and enjoy an evening together in spite of the potential awkwardness of the message you sent me, Refugee.”

“Me too, if you two will excuse me for a moment, I’ve been waiting to go to the men’s room for the last 45 minutes.”

I returned after a few minutes to settle my tab and exit for more friendly environs.

“Samone, Jackson, I’d say that this has been a pleasure but I don’t want to compound the lies of this afternoon.  Jack, I just sent you an email wherein I forwarded the original message your girlfriend sent me.  You and I have never been great friends and I don’t imagine that this is going to improve things.  But you needed to know the truth about how this went down, and you should also know that even if Samone was my type – you know, faithful – I would never have tried to poach her away from you.  Good luck to you both.”

While my words still hung in the air, I said good bye to the bartender and most likely a bar pal with whom I won’t be drinking again.

I’ve known Jackson for a few years – we have thrown back a few drinks, had a couple of substantive late night conversations, and been together on both sides of a bar – though I do not consider our relationship particularly close.  I have met his girlfriend, Samone, once; it was a couple of weeks ago when Jack and I found ourselves at the same bar and involved in a group conversation with a few other regulars.  Samone brightened the bar’s door on the tail end of the evening after she had been bar hopping her way through a Girls Night.  I remember her – truly stunning women tend to make lasting impressions – but would never have expected her to remember me.  It was late, the bar was dark, and she had clearly enjoyed her evening.

When I opened my email this morning I had a message from Samone, via an on-line dating site.

“I can’t even remember now how I stumbled upon your profile, but I do remember it had something to do with your photo. I admit, I was drawn in by your sexy look, but I liked what you had to say, too. If you’re so inclined, take a peek at my profile (it’s pretty exhaustive) and maybe drop me a line? Maybe we could get a drink sometime?  I think we would have a god time if we went out.”

I was almost certain it was her from the photograph and details in the profile, but I needed to be certain.  Detective Refugee emerged.

I joined Facebook so I could “friend” Jackson and check his relationship status.  Facebook confirmed that Jackson and Samone are still engaged in an exclusive relationship if only in his mind.  One of the pictures in Samone’s on-line dating profile is the same picture that is visible on Facebook.  I’d confirmed all the relevant details but still had no clue how to proceed.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette on the patio and thought how I would want an acquaintance to handle this were I in Jackson’s shoes.  I wrote two emails: the first to him inviting him to have a drink with me later this weekend; the second to her.

Samone,

Thanks for taking the time to write me; your words were kind and flattering.  We have met before – a couple of weeks ago Jackson introduced us at the bar.  He and I are getting together for a drink and to watch the game on Sunday.  I hope that you two will have a conversation regarding our email exchange before then.  I wish you the best of luck in the future.

Regards,

Refugee

I don’t know if I have done the right thing but I took a deep breath and pressed send to both emails.  I hope that beer with Jackson will not force my hand in this matter.  I would rather not have to tell another man that his girlfriend is actively looking for extracurricular activities while he’s looking for her Christmas present.  What would you have done?  What would you have wanted to happen if you were in either person’s shoes?