Sunday Morning Mashup

23 May 2010

I ran into the worst clients and most awful couple ever the other day.

I was taking advantage of a lovely afternoon and spent a few hours on the patio of one of my favorite swanky hotels.  My only table companions were a cigar, an open bottle of champagne, and Todd Kliman’s new book The Wild Vine.  Sam and Toni breezed by me on the way to their own table on the opposite side of the courtyard.  My first thoughts of gratitude for having gone unnoticed were soon eclipsed by dread when I saw them waving at me and beckoning me to come join them.

I knew I should have just ignored them, but I try to be civil even with people this obnoxious when they used to be clients.  There was mindless chitchat that lasted about two excruciatingly long minutes.  There was a request for me to check my schedule for availability to do a dinner party for them.  There was general obfuscating on my part.  Just after we were said our perfunctory and worthless goodbyes but before I had actually turned my body to walk away, Sam said “Say Refugee, Toni has allergy problems, you mind putting out your cigar.”

It was all statement, there was no trace of request or favor, and it was said through that smug and entitled smile.

I had no pithy comeback, no well timed soliloquy on their pernicious sense of privilege, I just stood for a pregnant moment, returned the entitled smile and said “Absofuckinglutely I would mind, have a good day.”

******

Artie Shaw would be celebrating his 100th birthday today.  He was a brilliant player of several reed instruments, a prolific composer and big band leader, and by just about every historical account, a really stand-up guy.  He also happened to be the first musician to put a black singer, Billie Holiday, in front of a white band… and toured the South no less.

His most famous recording is Begin the Beguine and is considered by anyone worth their dancing shoes to be among the greatest big band songs ever.  Go ahead and listen… I dare ya not to bop your head.

4 Comments | apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bad clients, bars aka where we get the booze, Dinner Parties, In Memoriam | 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.
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I replied with the philosophy learned from him, “Exceptional wines are for days that are exceptionally good or exceptionally shitty.”
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“Damn right! Get a coupla glasses and have a drink with an old man.”
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We were about halfway through our glasses when TJ rhetorically asked “Do you know why I come here, why we do this?”
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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I am pretty sure that someone bartender will be hearing a few TJ stories this evening… and drinking really well later.
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* refers to some impossible to find bottle, usually very small production and about as much cash as a mortgage payment.
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** refers to the ceremonial cup awarded to people who have been admitted to the International Court of Sommeliers
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*** 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

Goodnight, Goodbye, and Good Luck, Old Friend

23 February 2010

My affection for the recently shuttered Polly’s Bar & Grill is at least fifteen years old.  It was never a place for fine dining, or quaffing sublime wines.  If you asked for some frilly nonsensical cocktail, odds were six-to-five-and-pick-em’ that you would be unceremoniously given a PBR or asked to leave.

Nostalgia was easily found when my first visit was in the winter and sat by a wood burning fireplace with a good beer and one of the best chicken sandwiches I‘d ever had.  It was even more ingrained the first time I was considered a sufficiently good regular that I was entrusted/commanded to maintain said fireplace.

As I write this, I am trying to determine my favorite memory of the venerable English Basement joint on U Street.

· There was the insanely good jukebox – for a longtime among the best in the city.

· There were the handful of New Year’s Day brunches I attended with as many people still wearing the clothes form the prior evening as those wearing pajamas.

· There was one day I was obviously on a date with an author I had just met at a signing at a bookstore upstairs.  I, young and relatively broke at the time, had to cut things short because I could only afford to have a couple of drinks.  I asked for the tab when my date went to the ladies room.  The unobtrusively attentive and keenly aware bartender asked me where I was going to take her next.  When I replied “nowhere, I can’t afford to,” she gave me another round and told me to order whatever and worry about it later.

· There was the night a friend and I started with one table but by the end of the night, had pushed together five tables to accommodate the strangers, and friends who joined over the course of several hours.  There may have been a game of “I Never” played that evening.  There may have been a “I have never had sex today” question.  There may have been a couple for whom only one party to a drink.

There are too many memories of Polly’s, too many friendships formed or cemented in that bar.  There were too many lovely evenings, too many first date stories, and a couple of break-up stories too.  Polly’s opened when U street had become a place where people didn’t venture at night.  They gambled on a revitalizing and ultimately gentrifying neighborhood and for many years the return was as high for the owners as it was for the patrons who were the bedrock of the bar’s community that made it such a loveably quirky place.  I suspect that the people who loved it for all of those reasons lost touch with it because of all commercialized for commercialization’s sake that came to surround it.

Polly’s, I thank you for all of the good times.  I will miss you.

******

p.s. Thanks to U Street Girl for alerting me to this news, and to Prince of Petworth for alerting her.

11 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, blog friends, crush with a little c, dating, In Memoriam | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

To Teddy with Love

15 January 2010

Teddy Pendergrass was the soundtrack for seduction for young people of color from the late 70s and through most of the 80s.  Stevie Wonder was more prolific and versatile, Rick James most assuredly had more funk, Bill Whithers was more lyrically gifted, but there was no man with a sweeter baritone than Teddy P – as he was affectionately known then.  Some of you may be protesting “But, Refugee, what about Barry White?”  I am not going to dis Barry White and all of the grooves that he laid down during that period but the two were so different.  Barry White was over the top, post-ironic (before there was an irony movement,) dripping in conspicuous effort and saccharine.  Teddy P was just a cool, what-are-you-doing-later, don’t-you-want-to-dance-with-me kinda hip all wrapped in a cashmere soft baritone that always seemed to be whispering.

In 1982, he suffered a traumatic spinal injury that left him paralyzed from the waist down.  After rehab, he continued to record music but never approached the dizzying heights of the earlier part of his career.  He died yesterday – complications from colon cancer.  His legacy will live in the voices of so many singers who have paid tribute to him and in a permanent spot on my playlist when I am feeling wistful, hopeful, or when my spirits are running free.

1 Comment | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, In Memoriam | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

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
Posted by restaurant refugee

The 18th is Among My Favorite Amendments

4 December 2009

5 December 1933 was the date the United States’ failed experiment with national temperance came to a foreseeable and justifiable end.  Seventy-six years ago tomorrow, the booze which continued to flow during prohibition was finally legal again.  Bathtub gins, bootlegged whiskey, and moonshine were replaced with permissible varieties of spirits and state tax stamps.  Speakeasies flung open their doors to the public and once again a civilized society could have an adult beverage without flaunting the law.

As you proceed with your weekends, I hope you will all raise a glass of something and celebrate your ability to drink freely, well, sometimes poorly, and sometimes to excess.

Happy Repeal Day to you all.

3 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, booze & boozing, In Memoriam | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

King of the Vangaurd

23 September 2009

I suck at birthdays.

Even back in the day, before the ubiquity of cell phones and elimination of the need to keep numbers in one’s head, I still could barely remember birthdays.  Nephew, Sister, Mom, Dad – those are the only birthdays I have committed to memory.  One old friend who shares a birthday with my old man doesn’t count.

Among the Birthday’s I should remember but don’t:

  • My dear friend, the Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist
  • Every ex-girlfriend
  • My ex-wife whose birthday I should remember only by virtue of the fact that we were married, but nope
  • A good friend with whom I had dinner on her birthday… a couple of months ago… I think
  • The most significant ex-girlfriend for whom I threw and hosted three birthday parties
  • Everyone on my speed dial
  • The woman whose birthday I used as a voicemail code
  • My closest friend since the ninth grade
  • All of the people who sent me good wishes last week on mine

Yet for some reason, I never forget the 23rd of September.  I will spend this day listening to Giant Steps, Blue Train, A Love Supreme among others of My Favorite Things.

Happy Birthday, John William Coltrane.

**********

By the by, are there any musicians, writers, or artists who made such a significant impact in your life that you celebrate their birthday’s every year?

***********

P.S. There is a new dish over at my Recipe Blog - Avocado & Tomato Salad with Crispy Pancetta

19 Comments | In Memoriam | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

R.I.P. Mr. Jackson

26 June 2009

When I started writing this I’d been listening to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits for about two hours now – the greatest hits as determined by me and their meaning in my life.

I began with Off the Wall, the first album that was of my choosing and not the jazz of my father or the blues of my mother.  I played Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough three times.  Once for each time I restarted a party with a song that 30 years later still has that ability.

I played Can’t Help It because it was the first song that was ever an “Our Song.”

Thriller was played almost in its entirety for obvious reasons (if it ain’t obvious to you please stop reading now.)  It was the soundtrack of seventh grade for me.  I played it incessantly on my boom box.  P-Y-T was the standard dedication on the radio to any object of affection.  What person of that age didn’t know the steps to all of the videos?  I still know all of the lyrics and could karaoke them without looking at the screen.

Bad was the first album I didn’t love; but there were still some tracks that made the greatest hits cut.  I had to play Dirty Diana because it was the song that we sang to every woman with that name for too much of high school.

For Remember the Time I played the extended remix because a) it was a smoking hot track and b) I threw a “premier party” for the video.  It was a signature moment in my collegiate experience as we all gathered round a television at the appointed hour.

I concluded my nearly three hour tour through my MJ files with Butterflies, the last song of his that I considered relevant.  It was also always the fourth song that I played last on the jukebox at my favorite bar in 2001.

Thank you for all of the memories and the music, Mr. Jackson.  I do hope that you have peace now that you’ve left this earth.

5 Comments | In Memoriam | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

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