In Which I Almost Get into a Fight with a 15 Year Old

18 May 2010


One of the best parts of running my own business is that I rarely have to commute during the busiest time periods.  I generally avoid the trains packed with commuters or too loud with teenagers.  A recent Thursday was an exception.

A couple of stations after I boarded three high school boys entered the train.  They sat in a manner that selfishly occupied more space than they needed, and conversed in a volume that selfishly included everyone in their profanity laced conversation.  F-Bombs and N-Bombs flowed like some of the crap that passes for hip hop these days.

Had I been listening to my mp3 player, I might have just cranked the volume, and swallowed my tongue for the next four stops.  Had they not been wearing gear from my high school alma mater, I might have tried harder to ignore them.

From my position, I only had to rotate a few degrees to face the “Alpha” of the group.

“I know you” I began in a tone that older black men get to use with younger versions of ourselves when they’re “acting-up” and know it.  “Yeah, I know exactly who you are.  You’re fake-tough.  You see, I can tell by the way you speak – pronouncing your G’s a little too carefully, dropping an SAT word here and there – I know you’re not really tough. I know that you sprinkle your expletives from some desire to sound how you think tough kids sound.  It rings especially fake considering your private school uniforms… from a place where I was a student 20 years ago.

“I went to school with guys like you, hell I even tried that fake-tough language once or twice.  But now’s the time you really need to stop, not just because you embarrass yourself and our school with all this phony and foul language around little kids and women.  By the by, it might fool some of the people into thinking you’re not fake-tough, but not me.  Nah, you need to stop now because fake-tough only leads to two things: trouble at home and school, and getting your ass kicked because you tried your fake-tough routine with someone who’s actually tough.

“So let’s just quit this whole farcical charade, shall we.”

I could see the adrenaline and decision making in his eyes – his pride was wounded and he possessed no easy retorts.  I had no regrets about my message or its tone, I do wish I had said all of it in a more private manner, giving him the option of a more graceful surrender before his friends.  To make his decision easier, I finished with “You know I’m right, and you should also know that I have your football coach and principal on my speed dial.”

The trio exited two stops later.  On their way off the train, the “Alpha” made some vaguely insulting comment about my suit being “busted.”

A woman who was standing not too far from me and had witnessed the whole interaction leaned towards me and said “some lessons are hard to learn.”

I laughed a bit before replying “He learned the lesson alright; he might have said my suit was busted, but notice that he didn’t curse when he said it?”

7 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, dumb things I have done, i didn't wake up pissed-off, the hazards of commuting | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Dreaming in Metaphors

11 May 2010

I have discussed my insomnia in this space on more than one occasion. For me, insomnia manifests in waves.  Over the last twenty years, I’ve faced calm sleeping seas and consecutive years of high swells. Through numerous conversations with my doctors, I have steadfastly resisted their entreaties to allow them to medicate the problem (and me) into submission.  Until recently, that is…

Three nights of little green pills have produced nothing more than fitful sleep and the strangest of dreams.  What follows is an adaptation of one of those WTF!#?? dreams in which the characters and situations have no discernible root to my life.

I thought Jade and I had exorcised all of our relationship demons before getting engaged.  We’d seen each other in crisis, had traveled together, found agreement on all of life’s big ticket items, and I was as mad for her as I was for her four year old son.  For almost two years, we dated and never saw a problem we couldn’t solve with honest communication… and maybe some champagne too.

About a month before our wedding day – small ceremony in the chapel of her undergraduate alma mater – we went to a Mother’s Day lawn party hosted by her classmate and would-be Matron of Honor. The women all seemed to be wearing sundresses and the men all seemed to find a shade of pastel as harbinger of late spring.  After my first hamburger but before my second beer, Jade ended a phone call and headed my way bearing the electric smile that helped me fall for her that first night we met.

“Why are you so happy?” I asked.

She laced her arm around mine and uttered the sentence I never thought I’d hear her from her lips, the sentence that would end our relationship.

“You’re looking at the new chair of the Palin 2012 campaign.”

There aren’t many things that could render me incapable of verbal communication, but this was near the top of a very short list.  The room was spinning like I had the hangover from hell when Jade finally stopped the rotation with “Well, say something.”

“You’re a democrat, a democrat who’s pro-choice, pro-gun-control, pro-green, and you went to Smith for fucksakes!”

And that was it.  Our relationship, our life together shattered in as much time as it takes for three “you betcha’s” and a couple of winks.

I grabbed another beer and went to find Max, the little boy who wasn’t going to understand any of this.

“Max, I need to talk to you” I said just after he stuck his dismount from the Moonbounce.

“Max, your Mom is going to have a longer conversation with you later but the short version is ‘I’m not going to be around for a while.’”

His little head, with surprisingly large ears, nodded up and down – Jade conceived through a sperm-bank and I always kinda suspected that Will Smith was the donor.  I continued “There are some things I may not be around to tell you, but that you need to know in this life:

  • You’re going to get in trouble, you’re going to do something wrong and get caught;   when that happens, never lie about it, that only makes it worse.
  • Steer into a skid… and that doesn’t just go for driving
  • Black and White photographs are always cooler than color
  • The correct number of eggs for an omelet is two not three
  • There is no such thing as ‘out of your league’
  • If  your cab driver is listening to NPR, tip them a bit extra
  • Always make friends with the bartender
  • Never draw to an inside straight
  • A night of bad theater is better than a good night in front of the TV
  • Never do business with someone you wouldn’t drink with
  • Never wear loafers with a suit
  • There is no good sartorial application for polyester
  • People who only have self-taken pictures in their dating profile have no friends
  • Never pass on the opportunity to pay an honest compliment
  • Always wait for the second generation of a new technology before you invest
  • When you’re at a party, only tell one joke; always leave em’ wanting more
  • Quartz watches are for suckas
  • There is no car that looks good in yellow
  • Miller Lite is not beer… but that doesn’t make it evil on a really hot day
  • Learning how to dance early will yield exponential dividends later
  • Do go on that semester abroad
  • Do not gamble with pool players who have multiple word names like Philly Mike, or Six Fingered Tony
  • Chewing gum in public isn’t inherently bad, but everyone else knowing you’re chewing gum because your mouth resembles a bovine with a hunk of cud is bad
  • Daydreaming is a virtuous activity, practice it often… but not in class
  • Do not trust people who begin conversations with ‘Can I be honest with you’
  • Also not worthy of your trust are Yankee fans not from New York… or Yankee fans in general, might as well ad Red Sox fans to the list too
  • Do not see any Kevin Costner movie that doesn’t involve baseball… except maybe The Untouchables
  • Learn the word ‘feckless’ and use it whenever appropriate
  • It is always better to be the irresistible force than the immoveable object
  • Free advice is usually worth exactly what you pay for it, and ‘your mileage may vary’ applies to this list and just about everything you will ever learn as there are very few absolute truths…
  • Among the world’s absolute truths is that you will be judged for your ringtone – choose wisely.

And then I got in my yellow sports car, adjusted the tie on my polyester shirt and steered into my nocturnal skid.

7 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, dreams, dumb things I have done, it's complicated - not the movie, One that might have been something | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

I’ve Got Five on it Friday – Volume IIX

30 April 2010

I found on old journal today… old in the sense that I hadn’t written in it or seen it for at least a year, but it was hardly full.  It was a journal that I purchased one day because I was too snobbish to write on  drugstore paper, so I went to a bookstore to buy a journal that I promptly forgot that I had used.  What follows is the mostly completed post I found on its pages,

Five things I am almost positive you don’t know/wouldn’t suspect about me

  1. Once every few weeks I get a half-smoke from a DC street vendor, and I love it.
  2. I own a pair of overalls and I love wearing them every so often.
  3. I took the SAT’s for other people when I was in high school to make some extra cash
  4. Among the first things I notice about a woman are her eyelashes… but almost never before her shoes.
  5. I used to have a serious lead foot but the worst speeding ticket I ever received really wasn’t me… 120mph in a 65 zone.

Five things I really miss

  1. The simple elegance of Victoria’s Secret negligees from the 90s and early aughts
  2. The music of Sheila E. (not for nothing, but this link demonstrates her brilliance as a drummer and will make anyone old enough to remember to remember the song Glamorous Life just a bit wistfull.)
  3. A full box of Girl Scout Cookies… this may or may not be something that could not have been included on this list earlier this evening.
  4. Women like Rita Hayworth who could make removing an opera glove look like a striptease.
  5. Aroma Co. – R.I.P. to my favorite bar

Five Truisms of Online Dating That I Haven’t Previously Mentioned

  1. Women who have Hot, Princess, Queen, Sexy, any of their derivatives, or any other over the top self-aggrandizement contained in their screen name are rarely worth the effort.
  2. Randomly coming across your ex-spouse’s profile will induce vomit in the mouth… or is that just me?
  3. Women with more than one cat in their profile pictures are… women with more than one cat in their profile pictures.
  4. Anyone who uses the mind-numbingly overused cliché “work hard, play hard/er” is 3.67 times more likely to be a tool.
  5. Having done it for longer than most of the people who read this space have been able to legally drive, vote, or drink, I am pretty sure it is a complete and utter waste of time… but I cannot stop the eternal optimist in me from continuing to participate.

Five Tweets that have singularly made my Experiment with Twitter completely worth it

  1. @LexaLemmy – Him: wanna come to my place? Me: we met 30 minutes ago! Him: so your place? Me: I am a fucking lady!
  2. @PaigeWrites – I long for the day when I can highlight a comment in an email and designate it be shown in sarcastic font.
  3. @caradox: – All I asked Google was: “Explain the Republican strategy today.” Sorry for crashing the Internet.
  4. @suicide_blond – my car isn’t nearly as fast as my credit card… 0 to 6k in 2.2 seconds xoxo
  5. @postsecret – Today’s Email: “My soul-mate is a hardcore Yankee’s fan… I’m still single.”

Under the heading of insomnia making beautiful bedfellows: Over a 3am g-chat,  I asked my e-friend and unmitigated blog crush, Not That Kind of Girl, to ask me five questions to complete this installment.

  1. What is the one piece of literature you most wish you could have written? – anything from The Bard but most especially Sonnet 116 if only so that I could have known a love so deep that it inspired a definition of the subject.
  2. What is the most erotic word? – my name spoken by the right woman
  3. What is a smell with powerful associations to you that no one else in the world would recognize? – I am not sure that no one else would recognize it but the 1920s version of Channel perfume.
  4. Who has it pained you most to lose sympathy for? – probably Jessie Jackson.  When I was a young black child in the late 70s early 80s he was a hero of mine.  As an adult in the 90s, through the aughts, and to today, I am left with nothing but anger that the main stream media keeps giving him a microphone because of the assumption that he speaks for black people.  And even more angered that the most dangerous place is between him and a microphone.
  5. With whom do most frequently you have imaginary conversations? – myself.  I talk to myself more than anyone would guess.

      Previous editions of I’ve Got Five on it Fridays:

      Not Quite Five on It but I Include It Anyway

      The Official Volume I

      Also Not Quite a Five on It but I Include It Anyway

      Apparently I Don’t Count So Well Because This is Volume III

      Volume IV – Just Go with the Wacky Counting

      Volume V – In for a Poorly Counted Penny, In for a Miscounted Pound

      Volume VI – I suppose I could just correct it at this point, but this is more fun

      Volume VII – just  go with it

      9 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, I Got Five on It Friday | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Why Is Truth to Power Easier than Truth to Fools?

      20 April 2010

      If you’re a gentleman of a certain age and bring a so-young-we-ought-to-look-at-her-ID-twice woman to your local, you are going to get the blues from the rest of the crew next time you come in.  And so it was when I greeted my buddy, The Law Professor, with “It was bad enough when you were dating law students, but when did you start dating undergrads?”

      The crew laughed and a few others added their smart-ass comments to the mix.  One cat who was a semi-regular but whom I’d not met was the lone dissenting voice.

      “I don’t see nothing wrong with it” the mid 40’s guy said (it will become clear why I don’t refer to him as a gentleman in a moment.)  “The bitch I’m dating now is 25 or 26, and I haven’t dated a bitch over 30 in ten years.”

      I bit my tongue.  He continued: “Older broads got too much drama, it’s all about their careers, and they’re too fucking difficult.  You take an old bitch to dinner someplace and she’s thinking ‘it could have been a nicer restaurant.’ You take a 25 year old bitch to dinner and she’s just grateful not to be eating fucking Ramen noodles.”

      Perhaps my mistake was engaging him at all, perhaps it was failing to call him on his woman-hating language, but either way my response was a mistake.  “You and I are different” I grossly understated.  “I want a woman who is my conversational, emotional, and intellectual equal, and while it is possible in substantively younger women, I find that more frequently in women closer to my own age.”

      “Dude, that’s bullshit” he replied, “There’s thousands of years of history that’ll tell you that bitches mature faster than men.  It only makes sense to date young bitches, history will tell you that.”

      Reclaiming a teeny bit of my spine, I answered “Ignoring the intellectual inconsistency of suggesting that women mature faster than men and therefore younger women are a better suited to be the equal you profess that you don’t seek, your statement is really just more evidence that history, like anything powerful, is exceptionally dangerous when people fail to understand it.”

      “Man, I don’t even understand what you just said… but all I’m saying is that young bitches make more sense cause older bitches got that fucking clock ticking, want you to be all perfect for them and they’re just too much damn trouble.”

      Finally finding the gumption to address the larger issue I stated “Sir, I am quite sure that nothing I say will change the misogyny that let’s you use the word ‘bitch’ as a pronoun for women, but if we are to continue this conversation and that is a big if because I am not sure it is worth it, I will ask you to not refer to women in that way any longer, or at least not around me.”

      We argued for a couple minutes more and every time he used bitch as pronoun for woman he would obnoxiously follow it with “sorry, I mean lady.”  Eventually, I no longer wished to be the bigger fool for continuing a conversation with a another fool.

      The foul-mouthed-women-hating guy didn’t stay beyond his first round at the bar (but clearly not his first of the night.)  After he left, the bartender, a professional friend who wasn’t really paying attention, but like all good bartenders could sense tension, asked me “Dude, Refugee, what was that all about?”

      “It’s simple” I said without taking my characteristic deep breath that aids in polite conversation, “If you use ‘bitch’ as pronoun for woman once, I will just assume that you’re a product of a misogynist society that mislead you into thinking it’s ok to do that, and let it slide.  If you do it a handful of times, I am going to be rather annoyed but probably let it go.  If you do it a dozen times inside a few minutes, I’m probably going to sack-up, call you on it, and stop talking to you because of it.”

      I was on my high horse, I knew it, and I was completely ok with it.

      After a pregnant silence, the bartender asked me “It’s still ok if we call a specific woman a bitch right, just not the general… I mean you’re not going to have a problem if I say ‘Ann Coulter’s a bitch, right?”

      We all laughed a bit, the tension was loosened.

      I laughed too, not because I inherently agreed but because at least he choose a hard  example for me to defend.

      ******

      For the record, an earlier version of this post was published before I had an opportunity to finish my edits.  The earlier version did not tell the very end of this experience but it did close with some questions for you, gentle readers.  I will include them now, just because…

      But here are my larger questions:

      • No one in polite society would repeatedly refer to any ethnic group by a pejorative slur, nor would people consistently refer to gay men or women by similarly noxious terms.  So why is it that people feel comfortable referring to women in that way?
      • If someone was consistently referencing any ethnic group that way, I am certain that I would have protested sooner.  What does it say about me that I took so long to declare that unacceptable?
      • What does it say about my “bar friends” that I was the only person who noticed this as others at least claimed to not have taken note of the language?

      15 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bars aka where we get the booze, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, minutes of my life I'll never get back, the newspapers made me that way | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      In Other News, Clichés are Clichés for a Reason

      17 April 2010

      “There is nothing more dangerous that a woman does than getting drunk in public.”

      That chauvinistic declaration, with some elements of truth, belonged to my father and the first time I can recall hearing it was around age eight.  For reasons best left to a therapist to explain, those words have stuck with me and resonated in my behavior.

      The thought crossed my mind recently as I watched a 30somthing woman weeble her way down a subway platform taking anything but the shortest distance between points A and B.  She wasn’t my responsibility and I had no intention of making her so, but I did keep a cautious eye on her… just in case something really bad was to happen.

      When the train arrived we both made our way to the same door.  She grabbed different poles with each hand but still was less than steady as the train moved.  At one point, she leaned her hip against the pole I was holding, pinning my hand there.  My instinct was to prop her up, offer a steadying hand, but I resisted because no one wants to be seen as the guy trying to take advantage of the drunk girl.  Two stops after our boarding location, we exited the train. She walked the first set of escalators – zigzagging her way.  When we reached the second set of escalators, she again walked for a bit before surrendering and standing still.  I walked past her for a few steps before the momentum of nature or nurture (jump ball) could not be quelled and I turned to ask her “When we get topside, may I help you get a cab?”

      “No, no, I’ll be ok” she replied with a surprising level of syllabic acuity.

      I assured her that “we’ve all been there” and that it’s “not a big deal” while I tried to make the argument that walking home, even the two blocks she needed to travel, wasn’t a good idea.  I volleyed, she countered but her protestations where not very vehement.  Eventually, after we had ascended the last escalator, I had to exercise the guilt option – “My grandma would be really upset if I let you walk home by yourself; I’d walk you home myself but you don’t know me so that wouldn’t be a good thing.”

      “It’s only two blocks, I can make it” she said before taking my face in her hands, getting kissing-distance close and saying “I’ll be fine.”

      “I’m not worried about your ability to get there, I’m concerned about all of the people you’ll pass on your way there – look there’s a cab right now” I said while waving him over. “Cab’s here, just take it as fait accompli.”

      She got in the cab and I paid the driver enough to take her those two blocks with a sufficiently large tip that I am hoping he made sure she got inside as I asked him to do.

      Two nights later, I was sitting in the bar where I was headed the night that I helped that woman into a cab when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

      “We met the other night, but I never caught your name” the same woman said.

      “I’m Restaurant Refugee” I replied using my full name for introductions the way that Miss Manners has taught me.

      She thanked me for getting her home, insisted on buying me a drink as compensation, and then explained that despite the fact that she was grateful, thinks me a gentleman and kinda cute, cannot date me because she could never get past the embarrassment of our first meeting.

      …and the trend of good deeds not going unpunished continues.

      …as does the trend of attractive women mistakenly thinking that the dating decision is entirely theirs regardless of their behavior.

      6 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, crush with a little c, dating, dumb things I have done, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, it's complicated - not the movie, kindness of strangers, moths have candles - apparently I have hot lawyers, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, smoke in your eyes, women | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      An “Are You F***ing Kidding Me?” Friday Night

      13 April 2010

      Three stacked redheads at the end of any bar will tend to get noticed and I certainly took note of them as I passed on my way to the wash closet.  We shared outlier positions for different reasons – three redheads are as common an occurrence as me at this particular dive bar that has none of the dive bar charms of my usual haunts.

      An hour or so later I stepped out for some air and one of the three followed me to the sidewalk.

      “Can I bum a cigarette” Morgan asked with a smile.

      “Of course” I replied while pulling a brushed silver cigarette case from the breast pocket of my suit.

      “Oh, so fancy, you make me feel under-dressed or something” she mocked.

      “Well if we’re gonna kill ourselves we might as well do it with some style.”

      “Ha, indeed… you ever stop a bullet with that thing?”

      “I never would have thought you old enough to make a Johnny Dangerously reference” I fired back with more than a bit of a laugh.

      “Are you kidding me? That was the movie I went to on my first date!” Morgan exclaimed with a big smile.

      Just as she was telling me about the teenager who tried to feel her up in the theater, Morgan’s sister came outside.  She too bummed a smoke.  Introductions were made, a couple of laughs shared, and maybe a passing puppy or two got petted.  At some point, they mentioned the sibling debate about a drive back to Richmond because they couldn’t find a hotel room.

      “We really want to stay another night, but, we called everywhere; they’re all sold out” Tracy said.

      “If you really want a hotel room, I’d be happy to make a few calls for you – I have a couple of connections in that business.

      I made four calls before we went back inside because I needed to relieve myself again.  “I haven’t given up; there are still a couple of chits in my pocket.  I’ll come find you when I find you all a room.”

      As I was washing my hands, an old friend came through with a room and at the “friends and family” rate too.  Leaving the restroom, I passed Morgan and Tracy on their way into the ladies room.  I gave them the good news and told them that I would scribble down all of the information for them by the time they returned to the bar.

      A couple of minutes later I was transcribing the hotel’s address, phone number, and the manager’s name when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

      “Are you the guy that just offered those women a hotel room?” a tallish woman queried without introduction.

      “Pardon me” I replied even though I had heard her quite clearly.

      “Did you just offer those ladies a hotel room?” the tallish woman repeated still without introduction and two degrees more sharply than acceptable in polite society.

      I stood up – an instinctual response to a power move so I could meet her gaze at eye level – before responding “You’re just a bit misinformed, I offered to make some phone calls to try to find them a room; but more importantly how does this concern you?”

      “I’m the manager here and this whole thing feels kinda skeevy.”

      A quiet smile is the surest sign that I am really angry.  Through that slight smile, I just excused myself and walked right by the tallish woman towards Morgan, Tracy, and their oldest sister who I didn’t meet.  I gave them all of the information for their hotel.  I took one more deep breath before turning my attention back to the manager who curiously was still standing by my empty bar seat.

      “Ya know, I’ve done your job, and your boss’s job too; and now I get paid a lot of money to tell people in your position how to do your job.  So I appreciate the fact that you take the safety of your guests seriously.  And I know you work in this popped-collar Georgetown bar where hordes of frat boys descend every weekend night with roofies in the pocket and bad ideas on the brain.  But I am not one of ‘em, I don’t look like one of ‘em and even if I did you don’t talk to your guests like that.  I don’t appreciate your attitude, your condescension, or any part of the way you approached me.  Now, you’re going to bring me my tab, and while you do that I want you to think about whether you owe me an apology.  The short answer is yes, because I’m industry and know how badly you just screwed the pooch, but more importantly you should think about whether you owe me an apology just because I am some random guy who walked into your bar looking for a burger and a beer, and you treated me like shit for no good reason.”

      15 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bars aka where we get the booze, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, i didn't wake up pissed-off, Uncategorized | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Random Friday, Random Housekeeping, Is It Happy Hour Yet?

      2 April 2010

      I thank all of you for your good wishes on my announcement yesterday. As I emailed more than a few of you who left comments, the proper etiquette, however, requires “Best Wishes” to the prospective bride, and “Congratulations” to the guy who just executed an outstanding April Fools Day Prank.  I’m Gonna Break Your Heart and I will be together forever, but as the great friends we have been since the day we met but there will be no marriage.

      ******

      I recently saw some who was the worst kind of cliché – one that is dangerous is both the literal and metaphorical sense.  From the elevated perch of my Metrobus window seat, I watched some self-centered millennial asshole driving his BMW with his knees while having two hands on his crackberry.  Never have I wanted to throttle someone more than at that moment.  For the love of Bacon and all things Holy, put the bloody phone down and drive!

      ******

      Filed under: How Could I not Know About This, yesterday was the birthday of my severe blog crush, Rachel Maddow.  As I have admitted my horrid ability to remember even the most significant of birthdays, that memory omission doesn’t shock me or anyone who’s know me for more than a calendar year.  The part that annoys me is that Maddow fans on Twitter determined that they would send enough tweets with the hash tag Maddow to get her on the global front page of trends. Never mind that I barely know enough to write or understand that last sentence, but how did I miss that?

      ******

      Some Free Advice to Restaurateurs from Someone who Gets Paid to Give It: I know that everyone is telling you that you have be involved in new media and social networking to be successful.  While there is some truth there, the bigger issue is that you should resist the urge to fuck with things you don’t understand.  If you don’t know the etiquettes and charms and general ways of these tools they can only be more dangerous than productive.

      The following is an excerpt from a DC Blogs Round-Up I had put together.  It centered around a soon to open restauranteur who threatened a blogger with litigation over a mostly innocuous but critical comment left on her blog.  For editorial reasons, it got cut before publishing.  I share it with you all here because I still think it entertaining and enlightening.

      In a stunning example of “the solution is worse than the problem,” U Street Girl received a complaint from a business owner about a comment left on her blog.  The request threatened legal action and caught the attention of more than a few other bloggers.

      Original Post from U Street Girl

      Removal Post from U Street Girl

      Reaction from 14th and You

      Reaction from dcist (and a flood of comments)

      Reaction from We Love DC

      Reaction from Sophistpundit

      10 Comments | 04012010, advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bad clients, dumb things I have done, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, the social contract | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Riding That Train… Germaphobe Jones Better Watch Her Speed

      31 March 2010

      February was a long, travel filled, slightly angst ridden month for me.  One particular late winter day had been longer than most – a wake before dawn to catch a flight back to DC, work all day and finally take a breath round 8pm kinda long day.  Boarding the Metro train early evening, I was disappointed in not getting a seat for my four stop ride.  At least the train wasn’t sardine crowded, I thought.   My hand was one of the three deliberately anonymous hands wrapped around a pole for stability.

      At the second station a bespectacled brunette boarded at the same end of the train.  As we moved from stop to speed, this woman widened her stance in an effort to balance against the sometimes herky-jerky train movements.  The woman to my left shifted slightly to make even more room for the new woman to enter our little circle and reach the pole.  She gave a friendly smile as she did.  The solo stander held firm in her outsider position even if she was wobbly on her feet.

      As we left the third station, the woman to my right leaned forward and said “You don’t have to Metro Surf; there’s room here for you.”

      “Excuse me” the train surfer said… as she wobbled a bit more.

      “You don’t need to stand on your own, there’s plenty of space here.”

      The train surfer suddenly uncapped a rant about disease, and how she’d rather risk falling than “touch that germy thing especially this year with all of the different strains of influenza.”  The mini diatribe lasted about a minute.

      Maybe it was the patently ridiculous notion that we are somehow more fragile than our forbearers, or the general hilarity of someone so insanely germaphobic that she seems like an SNL character, or maybe it was the selfishness in her willingness to risk the safety of the other people on the train as she was far more likely to fall into someone else than she was to catch anything that hand washing couldn’t prevent, but for whatever reason this inflamed my sensibilities.

      I went against my usual find-away-to-confront-discomfort tendencies but my response wasn’t calculated… just the instinctual reaction of a fatigue addled brain.  As the train stopped, I gave her a good look, removed my hand from the pole and made a big showy lick of my palm.

      As I exited the train, I glanced at my pole mates. They could barely contain their laughter…

      …and then I went to buy some Listerine for a quick gargle*.

      * no need to tell me that the mouthwash wasn’t going to do much, and no, I didn’t get sick.

      By the by, I received an email update from Afraid of Unrequited.  She took some of my advice, some of LiLu’s advice, and stepped in a couple of the traps about which we both warned her.  Full details coming soon.

      17 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bad clients, i didn't wake up pissed-off | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Dating Advice from Me and LiLu

      8 March 2010

      My Dear Restaurant Refugee,

      I am that cliché, long time reader but first time commenter (or emailer is more accurate) and I was wondering if you’d give me your opinion on something.

      I work with a guy that seems to be a lot like you – smart, good looking, well dressed, and pretty comfortable around women.  I wanted to use International Crush Day to tell him that I’ve been crushing on him for a while, but he was out sick that day.  I’ve kind of lost my nerve since then.  What’s the best way to approach him?  Our office goes out sometimes for happy hour and such but I would never make a move in front of other people.  I’m pretty sure that he’s single and straight but don’t know what to do next.  Help me.

      Afraid of Unrequited

      p.s. I also wrote to Carolyn Hax, but I am pretty sure I have a better shot at getting a response from you.  If she responds too, I am probably going to ditch your advice in favor of hers.

      Dear Afraid of Unrequited,

      First, I thank you for reading and taking the time to write me this email and for your very kind words (ed. note: I did ask AU’s permission before using this as a blog post.) I am always flattered and humbled by the notion that people would ask my advice on anything.  As always, it should be noted that free advice is frequently worth exactly what you pay for it.

      You don’t indicate how directly you work with this gentleman and that matters a great deal.  You also don’t indicate how big your organization is.  I am going to assume that this chap is neither your direct boss nor one of your reports – sexual harassment is never sexy.  If he is either, you need to put the crush down and back away… quickly.  The same thing applies if you two work in a really small organization or small office of a larger organization.

      Your fear and hesitation is rooted in an aversion to rejection.  Everyone has it, men have just gotten more accustomed to dealing with it than women because of societal mores that have men deluded into believing that we almost always make the first move*.  The larger and more realistic question is what are you afraid of?  If you invite someone for drinks and they say no, what’s the big deal?  They have done their worst and said no, but what does that no really mean?

      If the worst case scenario is a poor reaction followed by gossiping to coworkers, is that a guy that you would want to date?  From what you wrote, that seems an unlikely outcome, but if it did occur I would consider it a dodged bullet.

      Some might consider a public and messy break-up that creates an untenable work environment the worst case.  I consider that situation the cautionary consideration to other questions: should I have sex with him, should I get serious with him, as those are two questions that can not occur without a first date.

      My advice:

      • As with any dating issue, consider the potential risks and rewards.  The risk here is relatively low, so just ask him already.
      • Choose an activity of mutual interest (gallery opening, new bar, billiards, whatever) and issue the invitation.  More than a week in advance can lead to heightened expectations, over-thinking and the like; two days or less can seriously reduce the likelihood of his availability.  Four days feels juuuusst right.
      • If he says no, don’t over-analyze** his answer.  Do pay attention to what he does.  You’ve made it clear that you’d like to socialize with him outside of the office.  Even if he is among the breed of men who needs to be bashed about the head with a flirtatious club before he understands that someone is interested, you extended an invitation.  If he wishes to see you in a non-working context but cannot on this date, he will reciprocate the offer.  Whether or not he reciprocates your affections, is another question.
      • Do not allow or initiate any physical contact (kissing counts) until you have an all-caps NEED for it, until you cannot imagine the earth rotating even one more degree without it.  It is throwing your cap over the wall in an office environment and you better NEED it before you go flinging it.
      • Don’t create an evidence trail.  Email might be an easier way to ask but resist that urge.  If you do make plans / start dating / get serious / whatever, do not send flirty emails via the office network.  This applies to office cell phones, voicemail too.  You must erect an emotional firewall between your professional interaction and your personal.

      However you choose to proceed, please let us know what happens.

      Best of luck to you,

      -rr

      * 96.34% of the times a man “makes the first move” it’s a reaction to something subtle and deliberate that a woman has done to give us permission to make the nominally inaccurate but perceived first move.

      ** notice a pattern developing here?

      For a woman’s perspective on this question, I turned to my dear friend, LiLu for her thoughts…

      Dear Afraid of Unrequited:

      I must admit, my first response is NO, BACK AWAY FROM THE COWORKER, DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200.

      This reaction may or may not come from personal experience. *cough*

      That said, it sounds like you want to go through with this, one way or another. So, (sigh), let’s figure out the best way to do it.

      Eons ago, back when I occasionally exercised my own feminine wiles, my Plan of Action probably would have looked a little something like this.

      Let’s call it…

      The “SCORE” System, a la LiLu.

      Step 1: “S” is for Stalk.

      Stalk the hell out of him. Facebook, Twitter, Google- do what you have to to find out that he is IN FACT straight ‘n single. (A little research never hurt the cause, neither.) There is nothing worse than batting your eyelashes at the Christmas party only to have his less-than-approving girlfriend- or boyfriend, for that matter- take his arm and proceed to kill you dead with eye lasers.

      Trust me. They burn.

      Step 2: “C” is for Corner.

      Corner him at an office happy hour. Get some alone time! Wait until he goes up to the bar, and “remember” that your own drink is empty, too. (After you down it. Duh.) Finagle the seating so you’re both on the end of the table, affording you some privacy. Last ditch move: arrange for some friends to be at a bar next door, and casually suggest he come with you for “one more” when the office group breaks up. Do what it takes, my friend. Get Creative. (Oh, look! Another “C”!)

      Step 3: “O” is for Obvious.

      Look. Dudes are dumb. I’ve said it, Refugee’s said it… while we have to consider the possibility that this may be a case of He’sJustNotThatIntoYou-itis, because the workplace is involved, there’s no way to know for sure. He could be reluctant to date a coworker; he could be your average dude who is completely effing clueless that you’re interested. So, once you’ve cornered him, make your affections obvious… while leaving him a “Get Out of Jail Free” card all the while. That way, you can both pretend it never happened.

      You know, after those first five or so awkward meetings at the copier.

      Step 4: “R” is for Read.

      Read his response. For the love, try to be objective. Do keep in mind that you are trying to save yourself from having to suffer through eight hours of utter humiliation EVERY. DAMN. DAY. Look for encouragement, watch for disinterest. Pay attention to whether he asks about and listens toyou, or whether he talks about work or {insert other purely platonic subject here} the whole time. Huge, red flag signs of interest are the following:

      • Any on-purpose touching. At all. This clearly crosses a boundary between coworkers. You win. (Well, halfway. He at least wants to get in your pants.)
      • Insisting on paying for your drinks. This is an easy way for him to show interest/make your interaction more date-y, especially without alerting other coworkers.
      • Inviting you to a future anything. See phrases like: “This was fun, we should do it again.” “Have you ever been to XYZ Bar? We should go sometime.” “Want to go to a Pants Party next Friday?”

      Just kidding on that last one. Don’t answer that.

      Step 5: “E” is for Execute.

      Now, depending on how Step 4 goes, you might be “executing” your future forever Entanglement as lovers… or making an entirely mortifying tail-between-the-legs Escape.

      I warned you.

      Good luck!

      ~LiLu

      ood luck!

      ~LiLu

      20 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, blog friends, booze & boozing, Crush with a big C, crush with a little c, dating, International Crush Day, open letters | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Missing My Mentor, Drinking to My Mentor

      7 March 2010
      I’ve never done any research on this, but I suspect that anyone who bothers to keep a journal could lose an entire afternoon reading through a randomly found old one.
      X
      Earlier today I was perusing an old OpenTable database looking for the aliases a prominent food critic to pass them to a friend who is about to open a restaurant.  All of the notes that we recorded about our guests read like the well worn pages of a journal chronicling a particularly lovely, enthralling, and more than occasionally difficult part of my life.
      X
      My jaw landed on the table when I reached the note about one of my wine mentors who happened to be a regular.  The grief I felt the day I learned of his death two years ago came rushing back.  Then I began to think of his incredible generosity  - with his time, knowledge, experience, and, yes, his wine too.
      X
      TJ would call me the mornings of his reservations and in an almost conspiratorial tone, he would tell me about some spectacular bottle with an impossible to find combination of vintage and winery.  He would drop it off before the opera and give me precise instructions on its opening – “OK, Refugee, crack it about 3; at 5, give it a taste and decant it if you think it’s ready; you’re gonna wanna taste it again ’round 8 and maybe double-decant it then but probably no later than 9:30 or so.”
      X
      He would arrive about 10:30 adorned with a smile as big as a Pagliacci grin… but real.  “Did ya like that wine, Refugee” he would ask despite knowing that it was nothing short of sublime; and we would talk wine in the bar for a few minutes before taking him to a table.  I always learned more during his 90 minute meal than I did in any 90 minutes of my sommelier courses and that was only from the random two minute bursts of conversation peppered with wine talk.
      X
      One night he walked into the restaurant – solo and without reservation as he often did during the week – and placed a winicorn* bottle on the bar.
      X
      “Refugee, it’s been a really shitty day, you know what we do on really great or really crappy days right” he asked with his usual ebullience  - it was classic MT; he loved life so much that even bad days were reason to be happy.
      X
      I replied with the philosophy learned from him, “Exceptional wines are for days that are exceptionally good or exceptionally shitty.”
      X
      “Damn right! Get a coupla glasses and have a drink with an old man.”
      X
      We were about halfway through our glasses when TJ rhetorically asked “Do you know why I come here, why we do this?”
      X
      Knowing him well enough to know that he would answer his own question, I just took another sip to fill the beat before he continued.
      X
      “There’s enough crappy sommeliers ‘round here with enough hoity-toity pretentious bullshit to fill every Tastevin** in the world.  You’re not like that, your staff’s isn’t like that, and I figure if I can help a young somm be better, and have some fun in the process, well… well, that just makes the wine world a better place.”
      X
      With that, he drained the rest of his glass and said “I gotta run, a few more bartenders*** to say hello to tonight; share the rest with your guys at the end of the night.”
      X
      The night TJ died I went to one of my favorite restaurants with one of the best bottles in my cellar.  I had a glass with my friend, the manager; I told him about MT.  I asked him to share the rest of the bottle with his staff.
      X
      I am pretty sure that someone bartender will be hearing a few TJ stories this evening… and drinking really well later.
      X
      X
      X
      * refers to some impossible to find bottle, usually very small production and about as much cash as a mortgage payment.
      X
      ** refers to the ceremonial cup awarded to people who have been admitted to the International Court of Sommeliers
      X
      *** in TJ vernacular, “every time a great bartender becomes a manager a little piece of [his] soul dies.”  There is no higher compliment that he gave to managers than to call him/her a bartender.

      4 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, booze & boozing, In Memoriam, kindness of strangers, restaurants | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      A Doctrine of Exceptionalism I can Support

      17 February 2010

      One good thing about being snowbound (or really snow lazy) was that I had an opportunity to catch up on work, among other things.  Like I suspect many of you also did, I vacillated between productivity and television/movies/books.  One of the movies that I finally watched (and no, I am not necessarily proud of it) was the Sex and the City movie.  I have no problems admitting that I followed the show during its early seasons – I may have attended and even hosted a SATC party or four – but I felt no real inclination to watch the movie.  I’m going to blame HBO for showing it a bunch of times and my insomnia for choosing it over infomercials.

      This has never been a space for movie reviews and I certainly won’t change that by discussing a 2+ year old movie of marginal cinematic consequence.  But after watching Carrie get left at the alter by Big, I just knew there was no way they were getting back together… and then I wanted to throw day old Domino’s pizza at the screen when they did reconnect and marry at the end of the movie.  “How could she put herself in this position?” I yelled at the screen, followed by the thought “this is the bullshit message that ends a once formidable cultural phenomenon?”

      A day or so later the distaste was still lingering in my mind when I trekked to a bar to meet a friend.  The Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist and I were sitting on a mostly heated patio lamenting our NFL-Withdrawal while sucking on discount beers and La Flor Dominicana Cabinet Selection #1* for me and American Spirits for him.  A few minutes later a slightly inebriated woman ambled over to our perch at the bar.

      “Excuse me, I just broke up with my boyfriend and would like a cigarette please” she said with just a hint of affect.

      My reaction to such information has long been the optimistic “Congratulations.”

      Over the course of her smoke, Katerina revealed that it was a mostly good thing and that they split because he lives two time zones away.  In an attempt to find the good news in a painful situation, I offered “That’s a good reason to split if for no other reason than the fact that he didn’t inspire you to want to move.”

      Eventually Katerina thanked us for the smoke and the company and returned to her friends.  Before we left the bar, she returned twice more for a tobacco intermezzo and some of the breezy yet serious conversation that is most easily found with imperfect strangers.  On her final visit, Katerina broached the subject of the distance again.

      “How do I know the difference between not wanting to move and not being inspired to move?” She asked.

      “You don’t really know the difference until one exists.  In my little world, if someone really makes your socks roll up and down, you’ll want to do certain things… like move out west because that’s where he is.  Or he’d want to move here, or you two might find some hybrid between because you want home to be wherever they are.  You see, the veracity of anything we have planned for our lives is never truly known until it’s tested.  I used to think, and now think again, that I don’t want to have children.  Then one day I was knocked on my ass by a love I had never even known could exist.  That exceptional woman wanted children and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for me to want them too.”

      “I never knew that” OSSL interrupted but I was on too much of a roll to respond to his statement.

      “We believe all of these things about our world and what we want and then suddenly an unordinary love comes along and shakes our sensibilities like a fucking snow globe.  Only in the face of that test are a lot of our really core ‘deal-breakers’ and ‘must haves’ really proven.  It doesn’t happen often and sometimes not even easily, but it’s that exception that you just know, that you feel in the deepest part of your soul.  Call it the Doctrine of Love’s Exceptionalism.”

      In that instant, I realized two things 1) I had shifted from answering Katerina’s question and started speaking for some part of me, and 2) that I had to forgive Carrie for marrying Big.

      *****

      Ya know, just in case any of you ever need to know what kind of cigars your favorite restaurant refugee likes to smoke.

      12 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bars aka where we get the booze, Crush with a big C, crush with a little c, dating, dumb things I have done, moths have candles - apparently I have hot lawyers, One that might have been something, women | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      It’s That Time of Year Again – International Crush Day

      16 February 2010

      A year ago some blog friends were hosting a Happy Hour with the theme “It’s Just a Little Crush.” While a business trip kept me away from the boozefest, I extrapolated the concept to propose that 20 February be declared International Crush Day.

      Among the things I wrote at the time:

      I endorse, embrace, and enthusiastically support the crush.

      In the same way that some would argue that the single cell organism is the purest form of life, I argue that the crush is the purest form of affection.  It is perfect, wholly contained, and needs no augment.  It can exist in a personal vacuum absent acknowledgment or reciprocity.  The Crush can be romantic, professional, artistic, vocational, social, bloggerational, and can even exist within the confines of a healthy relationship.  The crush is perfect.

      To have a Crush is to engage whimsy, to embrace possibility, and in the extreme case to wrap oneself in the courage of romance.

      So it’s that time again.  I encourage all of you to spend some time this Friday (International Crush Day is the rare holiday that ought to be celebrated a day in advance when falling on a weekend) declaring your appreciation to someone you’ve been crushing on.  It doesn’t matter what kind of crush it is, or whether it is based on affection or admiration.  What matters is telling someone that you like the way they make you smile when they enter a room, bend a phrase, play a horn, or curl a lip when having the first sip of coffee.  Whatever it is that makes you tingle, tell someone – across the room, or across the country, embrace the notion.

      ********

      p.s. please feel free to re-blog this, tweet about it, Facebook it or whatever other new media thingamabob you wish.

      20 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, blog friends, Crush with a big C, crush with a little c, dating, the social contract | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      A Couple of Endorsements and a Few Not So Much

      27 January 2010

      Not Exactly an Endorsement – It was barely four years ago that Mel Gibson revealed himself to be an Anti-Semitic jackhole.  His lunatic rants were all over the entertainment news wires.  TMZ published his arrest report, Gibson went on the typical apology tour, about which I am calling bullshit (Booze will lower inhibitions and allow one to say things that are already in his/her heart, but it won’t plant the most vile of thoughts there.)

      Now about 40 months later (less than half the amount of time it took for the Holocaust… you know just to add some perspective) this filth spewing, ignorant racist (I know: redundant,) Holocaust Denier has a big budget movie from a major studio.  The trailers are all over the television and the net and I can’t look at his repugnant mug without wanting to change the channel.

      An Endorsement – The Wet Martini, also known by its proper name, Martini, is a beautiful drink when well made.  Sadly, we got sold on the notion that a dry martini has virtue as opposed to being what it is: a big glass of cold gin.  Go to a good bar and ask the bartender for a real martini (you’ll know it’s a good bar if the bartender smiles with delight at the prospect) with Hendricks, or Bluecoat American Dry and a dash of Fee Brothers’ Bitters.

      Not Exactly an Endorsement – Television Commercials for Anti-Depressants are clearly designed by some people who’ve never dealt with clinical depression.  Attempting to make someone who suffers from this disease feel even worse in an effort to sell more of your drugs may not be equivalent to emotional blackmail but it’s not far behind it.

      An Endorsement – Buying the Suit/Dress/Whatever and then find the event later.  Maybe you host a cocktail party yourself and invite your friends to drink in all of their semi-formal finery.  Maybe you gather your friends for a night of fancy drinking just cause, or maybe you just attend one of the hundreds of charity galas held in every metropolitan area every year.  Get the threads, the event will come or you can make your own.

      Not Exactly an Endorsement – Professional Football Quarterbacks who consistently blame their teammates when things go wrong.  I’m not naming any names, cough, cough, Peyton Manning, but I am pretty sure that every time it happens butterflies lose their wings, puppies get stomach aches, and maybe a large woman gets ready to sing.

      12 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, booze & boozing, entertaining, i didn't wake up pissed-off, open letters, the social contract | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Visiting an Old Love – The Rest of the Story

      26 January 2010

      Easy banter and casual flirtation became the tangible, the inevitable on the night of my going away party.  It wasn’t my speech about why I am a horrible person to date, or YALIUD asking me why I never asked her on a date.  It became inevitable the moment the she and I caught eyes as the band started to play Besame Mucho.  It was the look of mutual agreement, of adult coconspirators acknowledging a carnal pact.

      A few hours later we were a collapsed mass of tangled bodies and damp skin.  Spent but thirsty from drink and activity, I fetched two glasses of water from YALIUD’s kitchen.

      “You know that I work as much as you do, right?” was the question YALIUD gently asked when I got back to the bed.

      She was right, our schedules were different but the volume of hours was roughly the same.  We made a go of it for a couple of months.  Drinks after my shift, or dinner at the bar of the restaurant one or two nights a week, and most Sunday mornings – that was the routine.  And like most routines, it grew old fast.  We had lost the light, the breezy, the banter that made it so pleasurable in the first place.

      When we first ended the unnamed thing that we were doing, we both had difficulty not using the other as a stress relieving crutch.  It made her career driven move to New York City easier.

      We traded emails over the ensuing years, had drinks together if we were in the same city (unless one of us was dating someone else,) and somehow kept a very weak but very real tether to each other.

      Last week, after the happiness and the hugs, after a cocktail or two, after the conversations about making partner and her buying her flat, after eyelashes were lowered slowly and legs crossed carefully, the question finally came.

      “Refugee, why didn’t we try harder?  Why didn’t you try harder?”

      “YALIUD, you know if we try to hold too tight we’ll find a way to choke it, not make it more secure.”

      “Yeah, I know, but I like knowing that you’ve thought about the question too.”

      5 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, Crush with a big C, dating, moths have candles - apparently I have hot lawyers, One that might have been something, women | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

      Moths Have Candles – Apparently I Have Hot Attorneys… or How YALIUD and I met – the Full Story

      24 January 2010

      YALIUD and I met back in 2004.  Close to eleven and a few times a week, she would arrive at the bar of the restaurant I was running at the time.  Three years removed from law school, she was a mid-level and fast-tracked associate at a white shoe law firm.  Most nights she would have a single malt while perusing the menu (for no good reason as she only ordered a pair of the same four things) and scribbling on a yellow legal pad.  When her appetizer arrived, she would move to a glass of red wine – whatever we recommended – and continue scribbling.  By the time the entrée arrived, she was ready to nurse her second glass and put away her work.

      We were a convenient anesthetic for her as we were only a block away from her condo and we had a habit of sending her a complimentary dessert, and always ensured that someone walked her home if she had enough for that to be prudent.  The nights of her visits fluctuated, but she was always there on Tuesdays – the night that I chose to keep my bartending skills sharp.  We would always do the three drink, 45 minutes of work, maybe one more dance.  After a few weeks of regular patronage, she asked me for “a last drink of the night.”

      After a few moderately successful but far from spectacular attempts, we settled on the Long Kiss Goodnight as her valedictory drink.  It was the right balance of soft, and spice, and cream and subtle for her.  She and I had the casual flirtation that is a tool a bartender’s uses more frequently than any jigger or shaker, but nothing further.

      YALIUD had been coming to the restaurant for several months when I invited her to my private “Going Away” party for my last night there.  I was headed to another, higher end, restaurant.  One of the my favorite bands was going to play, one of my favorite distributors donated plenty of booze for the open bar, one of my favorite bartenders from another bar was kind enough to “guest” that night so all of the staff could attend.

      “Have you ever seen the movie Good Will Hunting” YALIUD asked me as soon as she arrived at the party and before I could even say hello.

      “It’s one of my favorites… according to my definition of favorites which is movies I have seen at least seven times and would watch again tonight” I replied.

      “Ferfuckssaake, do you have to use every question as an excuse to pontificate?” YALIUD stated testily.

      I wanted to give some variation of the “have you met me” defense but I have learned enough to know that sarcasm’s most receptive audience is not an angry woman – even more so when you don’t know why she’s angry.  I went with “Sorry – bad habit” instead.

      “You know that scene in the Will and Skylar first meet in the bar?”  YALIUD said in what was only partly a question.

      “Yeah” was my very cautious reply, you know the kind of “yeah” that takes almost three syllables to articulate because you’re not sure where things are going and don’t think you’ll like the destination.

      “As she’s leaving she walks over to Will and says ‘You’re an idiot’”

      “Right.”

      “Yeah, well, you’re an idiot.  Why have you never asked me out?”

      Mission Control to Mouth, Mission Control to Mouth, come in Mouth.

      Mouth here, go ahead Mission Control.

      Mouth, you are instructed to proceed with extreme caution.  The very attractive, and slightly annoyed woman is a notoriously dangerous creature – move forward with great care and godspeed, Mouth…. Mission Control out.

      “May I get you a drink while I think of the best way to explain my obvious stupidity?”

      I went behind the bar and grabbed the hidden bottle of scotch, Glen Garioch 21 year old, that I reserved for really great or really craptastic nights.   I poured two fingers into a heavy bottom rocks glass and returned to YALIUD.

      “The explanation for my idiocy is more complicated than you might think” I said while placing the rich and complex single malt in her hand.  “You asked, so you’re going to get the full answer.  You are a stunning woman with a rapier wit and intelligence that you wear so gracefully.  Only a moron wouldn’t find you incredibly attractive.  But I’m in the restaurant business, which means that I generally avoid dating my guests because it’s most often bad for business.  Of course, I have made exceptions and I would be lying if I said I never thought about dating you.  The real problem is that despite the light flexibility of the aforementioned rule, there is no flexibility about staff asking out a guest.  I have fired people for doing that, so certainly couldn’t do it myself.”

      YALIUD’s look made it clear that she understood my point, but I sensed a need to preempt the next question, now that I am leaving…

      “And as much as I’d love to take you to dinner sometime, now that I am going to another restaurant, you should know what it’s like to date someone who runs a restaurant:

      • I will break plans with you at the last minute a minimum of three times before we actually have dinner
      • Most frequently we would only see each other after midnight
      • We would never get together on a Friday or Saturday night because I will always work those nights
      • When we do, finally, go to dinner, I will be interrupted by phone calls at least twice and leave you sitting at the table while I attempt to resolve the crisis du jour over the phone
      • I will never get to meet any of your friends unless you bring them to the restaurant, and even then I will have severely limited amounts of time to spend with you
      • Our social life will exist, by necessity, based on my schedule and there won’t be much that I can do to change that
      • I will be constantly distracted and preoccupied with thoughts of the restaurant.

      “You still want to go on a date with me?”

      “Wow, that was like a bad romantic comedy all condensed into forty seconds there” YALIUD replied snarkastically.  “You’re right, I probably don’t want to date you any more… taking you home is a different story though.”

      7 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bars aka where we get the booze, Crush with a big C, crush with a little c, dating, dumb things I have done, moths have candles - apparently I have hot lawyers, One that might have been something | Permalink
      Posted by restaurant refugee

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