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.

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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.

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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.”

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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
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Having a Long Kiss Goodnight to/in NYC

21 January 2010

Dinner at Le Bernadin was as exquisite as you would expect (and yes, I just name dropped a four star restaurant, because what the hell, it was sublime.)  It was the first time I dined by myself at a restaurant of this caliber since I was making a strategic effort to drink some of the best bottles in my wine cellar.  This put me in a mildly reflective mood, so the cab driver had to alert me when we arrived at my hotel.

I walked into the hotel bar where I was meeting Yet Another Lawyer I Used to Date for a quick drink and maybe a trip uptown to her favorite latin-jazz joint.  It was just before 10pm, and true to her exceedingly busy form, YALIUD had already sent one message about being almost unstuck from the office.

My hotel was of the classical variety thus the bar was blissfully absent the tragically hip elements that are too popular these days.  Barely half a minute after choosing a seat at the not quite crowded bar, the bartender slides a cloth napkin in front of me and asks for my drink order.

“Good evening, perhaps you would indulge me; I’d like equal parts cognac, frangelico, and bailey’s shaken heavily and served straight up, please.”

A few moments later, as the bartender sat the drink before me, she said “OK, I’ll bite, does this thing have a name?”

“There’s enough left in that shaker for you to pour yourself a dram; why don’t you taste it first” I implored.  The bartender gave me a look that instantly indicated that drinking was against company policy, so I continued “I understand if it’s against the rules, but how can you learn a new drink without tasting it?  It would seem a waste to do otherwise.”

I have never claimed to be a good influence on anyone.

She gave furtive glances to each corner of the room before pouring the remnants into a small rocks glass and taking a sip.  Her smile of delight was balanced by a slightly furrowed brow that I interpreted as consternation.

“I’m Wendy, and you need to tell me about this drink” she said while extending her hand.

“Hi Wendy, I’m Refugee.  That drink is a Long Kiss Goodnight…”

“Oh my god, that name makes perfect sense” Wendy interrupted.  “Where did you have it or learn it?”

“Actually, I invented it for a woman who used to come to my restaurant on the one night of the week I was bartending.  Just before she’d leave she always said ‘Refugee, make me my last drink of the night.’  It took about four weeks but this is what we settled on as her last drink of the night.”

“Hang on a second, I’ll be right back” Wendy said before tending to a group of suits in the middle of the bar.  Three Amstel Lights later Wendy was back and as many bartenders are wont to do, she continued the conversation right where she left it without segue.  “So, you used to be in the business, and invented this drink made with three standard ingredients that had never been put together before?”

I laughed a bit at the question because I understood the incredulity that inspired it before answering “Yeah, it sounds a little strange, but it was more than a few years ago, and I did some research before declaring it a creation.  There are more than a few other recipes with the really different ingredients with the same name, but this is the only one with this combination.”

“Well, it’s really good, and the flavors are really clean… and this one’s on me.  Thank you for teaching me something new” Wendy said at the same time that YALIUD finally arrived.

After the hug, the kisses on the cheek, YALIUD just looked at the bar and then to Wendy and said with a huge smile “Did he teach you MY drink?”

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Visiting an Old Love – See You in a Few Days

18 January 2010


It starts with the Acela train that lets me arrive moments before departure, allows me to use the phone and internet for the whole ride, has adult sized chairs and actual legroom, and then deposits me in midtown without so much as a wrinkle in my shirt.

There are so many things I love about visiting New York City, though I don’t think there is much I would enjoy about living here.  For the next few days, however, I am going to walk her streets, dine in her restaurants, drink in her bars, and, yes, take a meeting or three.

I’m going to hit the BlueNote, the Vanguard and the Algonquin for a little hot & cool swing.

I’ll roll through Circa Tabac, a place that was speakeasy cool years before that trend got annoying, for a cigar and a proper cocktail.

The aforementioned cigar will be purchased from the Davidoff store which, as the best cigar shop in the country, is like Mecca for cigar smokers.

There will be dinners at four stars, pizza at corner joints, very serious sushi, some uptown soulfood, and probably the most amazing dumplings I’ve ever tasted.

In truth, I am not sure I will get to all of the things I want to do as this is still a work trip, but I am looking forward to trying.  I’ve rarely been grateful for my insomnia, but this is one of those times.

************

By the by, I know that I owe you another installment of the Second Chances with New Vintages Series, I am working on it.

On another note, there is still time to nominate someone for the Valentine’s Contest

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A Few Short & Open Letters from the Week

17 January 2010

To the older gentleman & your impossibly good looking wife who sat across from me at the coffeeshop, watching you help your wife with her coat was the sweetest gesture I had seen all day, and made me just a touch sad because so few young men know (or bother) to do such gracious things.

To the 20 something couple from Philly who asked me about restaurants (oddly enough without knowing that this is my area of expertise,) I hope you had a good time at Cashion’s and thank you for helping your fiancée with her coat – it restored a little faith.

To the Arizona Cardinals, Baltimore Ravens, and Dallas Cowboys, somehow you all conspired to convert a great football weekend with really intriguing match-ups into a complete snoozefest.   Have fun this off-season.

To the very good looking Ginger who sat next to me at the cigar bar, complained about the smell of my La Aroma de Cuba while chain smoking Camel Lights, I would have happily moved to another seat sooner had you asked me politely instead of rudely grumbling about it to the bartender.  Perhaps that tramp-stamp tattoo should have read “Chutzpah for Days” not “too sexy 4 U*”

To the car-service driver, Tony, when your passenger would rather fake a phone call instead of talking to you, that might be a good indication that you talk just a wee bit too much.

To the Ritz Carlton bartender, flirting with my date is a pretty sure way to get me to leave your bar, leave you a mediocre tip, and give a call to your F&B director… after I have calmed down enough to not spit nails into the phone.

To the woman who used to be a friend, when I told you that “you need to stop trying to fuck away your problems one random cock at a time” I really was trying to be helpful.  Contrary to your expressed belief, taking a different guy home every night is not “owning your sexuality” it is expressing your insecurity and rubbing salt in those emotional wounds.

To the baby who kept trying to give me his pacifier in the subway, I really appreciated your generosity but I was pretty certain that you were going to need it later, your smile was gift enough for me.

* I really wish I was making that up.

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Dancing with Your Own Devils in the Pale Moonlight

10 January 2010

For a man who gets paid to notice things in restaurants, I can be horrifically unobservant when I am really into something else – book, newspaper, conversation, or even my own thoughts.  Thiswas the case one recent evening when I was enjoying a cigar, a bourbon, and the editorial section of the New York Times at one of my usual haunts.  I didn’t notice the striking woman in the winter white pant suit until she was standing at my bar table.

“Hi there” she opened; “I need you to settle a bet for me” she continued without giving me opportunity to return her salutation.

“Good evening” I said while rising from my chair.  “How may I help you settle this bet; and would you care to have a seat while we resolve this?”

“Thank you, I would like to sit… and I’m Jessica”

“Jessica, I’m Refugee; it’s a pleasure to meet you.  Now what is the bet?”

“Well, my girlfriends and I” she said while pointing to two women sitting at the far end of the bar “saw your wedding ring…”

“Not  a wedding ring as I am wearing it on my right hand ring finger” I corrected.

“Exactly.  That’s the question.  We have it narrowed down to: you’re from some country where they wear wedding bands on that hand but I think your lack of an accent eliminates that, or you’re actually married but shift the ring to the other hand when you go to bars, or you’re gay and wear that ring to let other men know you’re available.”

I snickered a bit at the options before replying “There are a couple of flaws in your logic.  If I was the kind of married man who switched his ring in bars, why would I ever admit to it?  Also, I am not positive about this, but I am fairly sure that gay people, especially gay women wear rings on the thumb to indicate such – though that may just be an old wives tale.”

“OK, let’s check your left ring finger for tan lines then” Jessica said with a bit of a smile.

She inspected my hand and declared my hands tan-line free.  “You didn’t answer the question about being gay” Jessica noted.

“No, I didn’t… I am straight” I acknowledged and answered.

“So why the ring?” she pressed.

“It’s a long story, but the short version is that I bought it as a gift to myself and a reminder of the lessons I tried to learn when I took a yearlong sabbatical from women several years ago.”

Just as I finished, Jessica’s two girlfriends arrived at the table demanding to know the verdict on the bet.

“Well, none of us were right.  Apparently, Refugee here has another reason having to do with a ‘sabbatical from women’”

I stood and formerly introduced myself to Stephanie and Maria.  They sat down and we ordered another round of drinks.  Before the cocktails arrived, Maria asked “So tell us more about this sabbatical.”

I laughed to myself before answering “You know, I am normally much more of an open book type of guy, but that’s just a bit more than I am willing to discuss this evening.”

I hadn’t meant for that to be a conversational grenade, but the table was silent for an uncomfortable moment.  Stefanie broke the quiet with “Well then, Mr.-Normally-An-Open-Book-Refugee, what would you be doing if we hadn’t crashed your table?”

I drained the last of my bourbon as our server had just brought the next round and said “Literally just having a drink, smoking a cigar, reading and waiting for a phone call that I don’t expect to come… metaphorically, I’d be running towards the football and foolishly thinking that Lucy won’t snatch it away again… maybe starting another sabbatical.”

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Old Friends Found in Funny Ways

30 December 2009

Monica is the sixth child of Salvatore and Annalisa.

It is worth noting, just because it is, that a fifteen year old Salvatore lied about his age to get into the US Army and fought in the European theatre in World War II.  Upon getting out of the Army, he used the G.I. Bill to attend college and earn a PhD from Stanford.  He is an unmitigated intellectual badass with courage to spare and a drawer full of medals to prove it.

Monica seemed to have the wisdom, charm, and wit of her siblings running down hill to her.  She was one of that exceptionally rare breed of human – so kind, so interesting, so everything, that if you didn’t like Monica, it was probably your fault.  And for some reason, during her last year of grad school she chose to date me.

I was still pretty young too – fresh out of grad school and just starting to make a decent living. We were mostly up through the fall, briefly down in the winter, and the strangest of peaks and valleys that spring.  In retrospect, I am fairly sure that our inconsistent behavior, despite steady feelings, was primarily a product of two people adjusting too the new reality of adulthood.  I did have the pleasure of meeting her old a man just before Christmas and again at her graduation that spring.

Monica was stuck in New York for job interviews when she called and asked me to entertain her father until she could get back.  It happened to be the night of the inner office holiday party of the corporate titan for which I was consulting.  The party was held at one of the swanky pool hall/bar/lounge that became really popular in the mid 90s.  Being the pool snob that I was (fine, still am too) I had my sticks with me for the party and consequently when I walked in the hotel bar to meet Salvatore for the first time.

We had planned to grab a drink at the hotel and wait for Monica for a late dinner but as soon as he saw my cue case, Sal asked “someplace for us to get a game around here?”

I’ve mentioned my pool game before, and I’ve mentioned that I’m a pretty decent shot, but that doesn’t provide full context.  Standard pool ratings run from 2 to 7.  You’re average person playing in a bar that has a couple of coin operated tables is between a 2 and a 3.  The average person in my pool league is just better than a 4.  Back then, I ranged between a five and a six depending on how much I practiced.

A Short cab ride later we’re walking into my usual pool hall and headed for a corner table.  I was determined that I was not going be that guy – it’s bad enough that he knows I’m shtupping his daughter, does he really need to be a worse pool player too – but to make every game I lost look good.

In an odd way, I was playing incredibly well to just miss shots and have it appear that I really meant to hit them.  We played about a dozen games: I won three, Sal won three, and I gave him the other six.

Our conversation flowed easily and there was more of it than most games between serious competitors.  We really liked each other and, drank the same single malt.

By the time Monica arrived, Sal and I were full-on friends and I kept my losing percentage the same.  I was really proud of myself for losing so well.  When Monica went to the wash closest, Sal said to me “You know, Refugee, your games pretty good you should just practice some more.”

That burned a bit, but I was still in control.  A game later when Sal chortled at one of my misses and laughed “Poor Refugee, any time you get near the eight ball, you keep choking,” that was a bridge too far.

I didn’t quite run the next rack, but I wasn’t too far from it.

Sal just whispered in my ear “It’s about time you stopped laying down” and winked at me.

In return, I gave him my favorite line from the best pool movie ever.  “Just give me your best game, Fat Man, just give me your best.”

He laughed, and we continued playing until well after the place closed.

We played about even, if any one’s curious.

Salvatore died last week.  He leaves behind an amazing wife, six children, more grandchildren than I can count, and a really big fan on the other side of the country.

7 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, billiards-breaks-and-balls, dating, dumb things I have done, In Memoriam, One that might have been something | Permalink
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And the R-Cubies Go To…

29 December 2009

Shameless Solipsism and a Couple of Wet Kisses have arrived in the form of the first annual (probably never do this again, but whatever) Restaurant Refugee Rewards or R-Cubes for short.  They are a collection of some of the posts of the last twelve months that had particular meaning to me, or got me in trouble, or simply had subjects that lent themselves to making another joke.  There are also a few other people’s work receiving awards today – though not nearly as many people as should get them so there maybe another installment of this tomorrow.

And the R-Cubies go to…

The Carrie Prejean Award for Pretty but Vapid Restaurants goes to Bar Dupont.

The What Would Happen If Dr. Ruth Looked Like Ginger Award for Sexpert Advice in the blogosphere goes to City Girl Blogs.

The Hallmark Award for Best Invention of a Holiday goes to National Crush Day

The Carl Lewis Sings the National Anthem Award for Shoulda Stuck to What you Know goes to All of my Attempts to Write Memes – Except this one which I thought was really good.

The James Lipton Award for Seemingly Simple but Terrifically Textured Questions goes to Megabrooke of Skrinkering Hearts who asked me “How Much is Too Much” in that interview meme that was going around at the beginning of the year.

The Infield Fly Rule Award for things you Should Know but Maybe Didn’t goes to Advice for Black Tie Galas and Capitol Hill Style’s Ball Tips and Tricks for Ladies that inspired it.

The Cowbell Award for Things I Need More of goes to Jimmy & Sophia.

The Urban Dictionary Award for Teaching me my Favorite New Phrase, Skin-Hungry, goes to I’m Gonna Break Your Heart.

The Oscar Wilde Award for Booze as Creative Lubricant goes to My Weekend as Three Rounds of Jeopardy.

The Max Roach Award for Consistently Leaving Comments Better than the Post that Inspired Them goes to my friend Brad.

The Joe Isuzu Award for Forcing Me to Be Creative with Truth goes to the Unnamed Woman Who Inspired This Post.

The Sarah Silverman Award for my Favorite New Funny and Irreverent Blogger goes to –The Fooler Initiative–.

The Don Imus Award for Unintentionally Causing Controversy goes to The Open Letter to a Few Women and the Subsequent Follow-Up.

The Snuggie Award for Ideas that Seemed Fun Conceptually but in Reality Not So Much… goes to Blog Reader Bingo.

The If Dr. Phil Wasn’t Such a Tool Award for Good Advice Given goes to A Guide to Fighting Fairly.

The Jennifer Tilly Award for Fiction Inspired by both Women and Poker goes to Playing Poker with an Old Foe.

The Donald & Ivanka Trump Award for Being Married to Each Other and Not Inflicting Themselves on Anyone Else goes to Sam & Toni.

7 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bad clients, bars aka where we get the booze, blog friends, blogging for a good cause, crush with a little c, Dinner Parties, dumb things I have done, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, i didn't wake up pissed-off, kindness of strangers, random stuff, restaurants, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, something else I have started that I may or may not finish, the R-Cubies | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Post Requiem on the Only Blizzard of the Oughts

23 December 2009

During a recent bar conversation, a few friends remarked on the laudible snow removal efforts in DC.  While I would agree that the DC government did a nice job, in the big picture of clearing streets, I am not willing to hold the bar quite so low.

Since the snow stopped falling on Saturday night, I have traveled by foot, Metro Bus, Metrorail, and Cab through the neighborhoods of Capitol Hill, Brightwood, Petworth, Cleveland Park, Adams Morgan, Woodley Park, Dupont Circle, Farragut, Midtown, Georgetown, Penn Quarter, and maybe a few more.  Sidewalks are still hazardous to an athletic adult male fully equipped with snow boots because of large swaths of unshoveled walks with compacted snow/ice.  They are extremely arduous for women with baby strollers, and they’re impassible to anyone in a wheelchair.

I get resource allocation theory.  I understand that we needed to focus on the largest and most heavily traveled streets first, and then work down towards smaller streets.  I further understand that sidewalk clearing is largely the responsibility of landowners whose property abuts said sidewalk but what about the intersections?  What about the accessible ramps at intersections that are covered by snow-banks that the road crews had to build? What about the sidewalks adjacent to public parks?

This impacts pubic safety, the local economy, civic morale, and very well might be a giant civil rights law suit because of violations to the Americans with Disabilities Act.

I am a native Washingtonian, thus I understand that DC Government doesn’t handle snow as well as some localities because we don’t get it as much.  It would be an illogical and grotesquely wasteful use of funds to acquire equivalent resources as a city like Chicago when snow’s like this only occur once a decade or so.

The sidewalk issues are more about human resources, however. This work requires people with shovels, and snow blowers, and salt/sand dispensers.

What’s the unemployment rate in the District?

********

When I was a much younger Washingtonian, snow days were a source of elation not just because of the promise of a day without school but at least in equal measure, they provided the opportunity to make some quick cash clearing sidewalks for people who were unable, unwilling, or simply preferred not to do it themselves.

As a neighbor who is a few years my junior and I cleared our own sidewalks and those of three other neighbors who are many years our senior, I kept waiting for those tweens and teens to arrive with shovels and an entrepreneurial spirit.  They never came.  Four hours spent on walkways and freeing cars from snow banks and we didn’t see a single one.

I am now – officially – a curmudgeon as I have made more than the statutorily allowed references to things that happened “in my day.”

********

In case you haven’t seen it, the Washington Post has a terrific op-ed piece by the “guy who wound up being detained by police” in the Great Snowball Fight of 09.

10 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, blog friends, Economic Theory, kindness of strangers, the social contract | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Dearest Santa – My Open List

20 December 2009

Dearest Santa,

I begin by explaining my belief in you – it has never wavered.  Sure, there was that one time in fourth grade when I may have pretended to be a non-believer, but that was just a front.  I only let people conclude such heinous things because snotty-nosed Johnny, who I am certain received lumps of coal that year and many that followed, was leading a chorus in which he and his evil cronies accused all believers of being “big fat little sissy babies.” Setting aside his horrific and illogical sentence structure, I assure you, Santa, that I only denied you once and only because even then I deemed arguing with the ill equipped to be a fool’s errand.

Like many bloggers this season, I am making my requests electronically because snail mail to the North Pole would burn hella fossil fuels, and publically because… well because I had to write something.  I am going to skip the obviously impossible requests (world peace, and end to suffering, a return to reason in political discourse, good service at CVS, etc.) because so many folks more worthy than I have made those requests and they seem not to be within your purview.  I will also forego the trappings of materiality (though if I were to find a 1961 Zenith Constellation Chronometer under my pretend tree, I wouldn’t be even a little upset,) because if I have learned nothing these past few years, I have learned that I have everything I really need.

With those caveats and qualifiers, my dear Santa, I give you my Christmas Wish list for 2009:

  1. I would like more uncomplicated relationships, or at least fewer relationships that offer conspicuous complexity.
  2. I would love it if you packaged some emotional availability and put that in my stocking.
  3. That ego deflation valve for my head would make a lovely bauble.  If you accompanied it with some supplemental humility packs it would really pop.
  4. A self-righteous-o-meter complete with the internal warning whistle that sounds before I get on Tilt would be splendid.
  5. While I appreciate all of the virtual friendships you’ve given me in the last year, I would love it if you made a few more of them more tangible.
  6. Santa, I love the delete-all-history function on that phone you gave me last year.  I am wondering if I could have the corresponding functionality for my brain too.
  7. I know that I have asked for a bunch of relationship stuff, but if you’d indulge me one more, I really wouldn’t mind if you helped me redevelop my relationship with Her.  No not that woman, Santa (she’s the reason I asked for number 6;) I’m referencing God, who I am convinced is a woman until I hear definitively contrary information.
  8. More cowbell
  9. A third ear – something stealthy, who wants to be that guy with an extra ear on his forehead – so I can listen a little bit more.

Well, Santa, that’s my list for this year.  I know that most of the things I have listed are within my control.  I suppose that is an implied acknowledgement that you, Santa, live in the heart of every boy and girl, no matter how old we get.

Sincerely, gratefully, yours,

Restaurant Refugee

10 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bars aka where we get the booze, blog friends, dating, dumb things I have done, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, kindness of strangers, minutes of my life I'll never get back, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, something else I have started that I may or may not finish, why am I'm done with Catholocism? how much time ya got? | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Evolving Backwards

17 December 2009

I’ve read Holla Back DC for several months now – I may not always agree with their pronouncements but I am endlessly fascinated and disheartened by the uncivilized behavior of my brethren with non-matching chromosomes.  I also found my friend, Urban Bohemian’s, question about Catcaller Zero to be an interesting take on the knuckle-dragging courtship ritual of yelling random and frequently vulgar things to women on the street.

Like the two aforementioned bloggers, I also wondered about the implied positive reinforcement of this behavior.  Surely some woman, at some point, responded affirmatively to this, else evolutionary law dictates that it would stop.  I just had never seen it… until Monday.

I was walking through Columbia Heights, which can be argued is ground central of the Holla problem, when I heard a typically crude cat-call.  The object of this vulgarity responded with “You can’t speak to me that way; that’s not my name.”

“Well, I don’t know your name; what’s your name” was the hollarers attempt at a logical response.

To my horror and more than slight amazement, this woman replied “My name is Foolish Woman Who Rewards Troglydyte Tendencies.”  Increasing my horror, FWWRTT reversed direction and walked towards the hollerer to speak with him.

I don’t know the outcome of their conversation, and I am not in any way suggesting that we blame women, the subjects or victims (depending on your perspective,) for the behavior of the offenders; but at least we now know that it works sometimes.

*****

Speaking of encouraging negative behavior…

I had just left the wash closet of the restaurant when I was conspicuously distracted by a Long Lashed Ingénue, and her severely hot boots, as she walked into the joint.  When she settled into the bar a couple of empty chairs away, I said “I love your boots.”

“Thank you, it’s the first time I’ve worn them and I was a little nervous walking here because I couldn’t walk to fast.  Surprisingly, I am on time for something for the first time in like ever.”

“Are you on a first date” was the question I asked despite knowing the answer.

“I will be once he gets here.”

We chatted for a moment or two more before my friend, the Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist, returned from his phone call and we returned to conversation.  LLI’s impatience grew after ten minutes elapsed with her date still not there.  When it hit fifteen minutes late, I joked that he had five more minutes before she should ditch him and come drinking with us.  When it got to twenty minutes she was visibly annoyed and said that the first words from his mouth better be a huge apology and an explanation of a lost cell phone.

LLI’s date eventually posted.  He was attired by accident, a subject that I’ve never understood, and there was no apology offered.  He went to get their table and she asked for her check.  I insisted that the bartender put her bourbon on my tab and wished her good luck.  She replied with a not too hopeful “thanks.”

Thirty minutes later we walked by their table on our way out the door.  She was holding his hand and looking wistful and happy.

I don’t know what the exceedingly tardy gentleman said in those thirty minutes, I don’t know if he waited until he got to the table to issue the profound apology that was required.  I don’t know if he lost his iron along with his cell phone, and the power was off so he had to dress in the dark.  I don’t know if he made a case for himself that mitigated all of the lateness, the absent apology, and the sloppy dressing.  I would however, bet dollars to donuts* that it never happened.

Am I blaming women for the poor behavior of men? Maybe just a bit.  I know that most of my lady friends and suspect that most of the female readers of this blog don’t contribute to this problem; but there is little room for debate about the fact that “bad boys” have their behavior rewarded by too many women.  When behavior is rewarded it is defacto encouraged to expand.  Please talk me down from this position.

* That phrase used to have a great deal more meaning before the price of donuts got pretty close to a dollar.

13 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, dating, Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist, shoe non-fetish | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

The Compliment that Convinced Me

15 December 2009

Most of my friends have never seen me without my goatee, so I am never surprised by their surprise when they see me without the facial hair that I had worn for more than fifteen years.  Of the friends who have expressed a preference, a solid but not overwhelming majority have indicated they prefer the clean shaven look.  I am still on the fence about it… or I was on until last night.

I walked into one of my locals to meet my dear friend, the Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist, for a drink and dinner.  Our favorite bartender greeted me with a big hug and a “Daaaayummm, you look so different without the beard.”

I was about to ask her to amplify her thoughts before she continued “I mean, you looked great before, but then you had that ‘professorial look’ now you look like his younger much hotter grad student TA who makes all the girls want to attend the study labs.”

Yeah, I’m never growing facial hair again.

10 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

You Cannot Be Serious

11 December 2009

First things first, I hope that we’ll see you tonight.  Good, now that that’s settled, back to regularly scheduled programming.


Reema reached over and had a gentle hand rubbing just below my shoulder blades.  The gesture wasn’t flirtatious in any way, rather it was a calming, circular motion that communicated a non-verbal “you know I agree with you but don’t start an argument with that guy – you can’t win because intellectual arguments with the unarmed still, somehow, leave everyone bloodied.”

Reema and I are frequent bar mates and almost always in political agreement.  We initially met a couple of years ago when she asked me where I got the “Yes We Can” – in Hebrew – sticker on my computer.  She’s a Hebrew speaking Indian Jew – not as rare as one might think, she keeps insisting.

Early on this random Tuesday evening I sat between Reema and an unfamiliar gentleman to my left.  At one point, Reema or I – my memory fails – asked for the channel on one of the televisions to be changed from FOX News (I had to type that three times before I could force my fingers to form FOX versus FIX) to a game.

As the channel changed, my accidental bar mate to my left said “oh, I was watching that.”

The bartender and I said, in almost unison, “Sorry about that, would you like to change it back?”

“No, no, I’m good” he replied.

In what was, at the time, a question of genuine curiosity, but in retrospect a very large mistake, I asked this gentleman “Do you watch FOX for entertainment, news or both?”

“Absolutely, both… I mean they’re the only ones putting the real news out there.  Come on, Glenn Beck is like a modern day Thomas Payne.”

Many of you may not believe me, but I really don’t seek conflict, and I tried to back away from this one by saying “Oh, I understand” and turning back towards comfortable conversation with Reema.

It took about five seconds for me to learn that starting another conversation would not end the previous one.  “I mean, FOX is the only major media outlet that talked about Obama’s birth certificate, the death panels the democrats are proposing as a health care solution, the fallacy of global warming, and all kinds of things that the left wing media ignores.”

This was the first moment I felt the calming influence of Reema’s hand on my back.  Her hand was the reason my tone was moderated, and my response a restrained “Yeah, well we disagree on this issue, and agreeing to disagree is never a bad thing.”

“You must be one of those typical lefties that think disagreeing with a conservative position is the height of intellectualism, but when conservatives disagree with liberals, you just shut down the conversation because you don’t respect our opinions.”

Reema’s hand urged me to take a moment and a deep breath before responding “It’s not that I don’t respect your opinions, Sir, it’s that I think that they require a dramatic rewriting of history to reach… the notion that Thomas Payne, a vociferous advocate of the equitable distribution of wealth, shares more than a passing resemblance to Glenn Beck is a laughable notion.”  My powder was still mostly dry, and my voice well within acceptable tones, when I continued “That you really consider FOX the bell ringer of unbiased information is as laughable as the people who consider Keith Olberman to be that as well; it’s not that I don’t respect your opinions, rather, it’s that I think that they are so diametrically opposed to mine that there is no middle ground on which either of us could change the other’s mind, and therefore, it’s best that we leave things with a gentleman’s agreement to agree to disagree.”

This conservative gent to my left capitulated to my neutral-corners offer for about five minutes before he offered “So I guess you hate Sarah Palin too?”

Reema was in the restroom so the calming influence of her hand on my back was absent when I finally snapped back “You’re about two sentences from convincing me that you’re a real ass – not because of your political view, but because you seem insistent on arguing about it with someone who has made it clear that they do not wish to discuss such things with you.”  I took another deep breath before concluding with “I don’t know why you insist on trying to snatch conflict from the jaws of peaceable drinking, but…”

My voice trailed off as my mind caught the place my mouth was about to go.

“…Listen, when my friend gets back, I’m going to talk to her; but I do wish you a really happy holiday season, sir.”

He finally got the hint – and his check.

12 Comments | apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bars aka where we get the booze, dumb things I have done, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, i didn't wake up pissed-off, minutes of my life I'll never get back, the newspapers made me that way | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

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