Scenes From A French Restaurant
It's not often that I dine alone, and the truth is that for the most part it makes me miserable. I don't want to hide behind a book like my road warrior old man was prone to due during his 15 years of nonstop traveling, and I refused to be one of those "look at me I'm so cool" types fidgeting incessantly with a Blackberry or cell phone.
My goal after traipsing all over the Large Apple Wednesday night was to dine at Blue Smoke, which is owned by The anky Righthander's mother-in-law's neighbors growing up. Unfortunately, the collective BBQ jones of all of New Yorks is focused on Blue Smoke right now. I ambled in there at 9:00 and was told it would be an hour for a table for one.
(On a side note, I think that Chicago is the only city in America where people eat dinner at a "normal hour" anymore. In the past 3 months I've been in Tampa (where everyone eats at 5 so they can catch the early episode of "Golden Girls" on UPN before nodding off at 7:30) and then San Fran, Seattle and New York, where it's a cardinal sin to eat before 9. So think about it, if you live in San Francisco and eat at 9, it's already midnight on the East Coast. Gastrointestinal jet lag, anyone?)
Anyway, I decided that a charming little French place called La Petit Auberge ought to hit the spot. After all, I now work for a French company, and French Girls are hot in spite of their hairiness and haughtiness. So, in I went.
Turns out the place has quite a reputation. According to the somewhat yellowed newsclippings on the wall, Jackie O used to eat there a lot. Ditto Henry Kissinger. I'm guessing they probably never ate together.
Right away, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Me: 30, jeans and untucked pink dress shirt.
Everyone else: 65, ratty cashmere sweaters, wool slacks and sneakers. The Uniform Of Old Money in New York
Undaunted, I plopped down and ordered a glass of vino, taking note f my fellow diners. In front of me: old couple. He was a tall fellow, she was British. He made faces and funny gestures, she cracked up and countered with "Ohh Richard, dahhhling, you have just got to stop." When Richard needed more wine, Richard reached over British Lady and shook his glass at the bar. It was promptly recharged.
Next to me: first date couple. She was 40 trying to look 25. He was 50 trying to look like Richard Branson (who may in fact be older than 50, I'm really not sure) She was NOT a New Yorker--blonde, chesty and squeezed into a black dress and sporting black boots, she had some kind of Midwestern girl trying to be chic vibe going on. He was a New Yorker, but tried to affect an erudite Bostonish accent in an attempt to woo the black dress and black boots off of her.
She ordered a Cosmopolitian. Waiter looked at her in that funny "you stupid American" way that only the French can pull off and brought it to her. She immediately started grumbling about how she could taste the vodka, but her gracious date so nicely decided to share it with her.
They ordered. He went with the prix-fixe option, same as me. The difference is I went with the onion soup and filet of sole. He went with the escargot and duck l'orange. She was a little scared of all the big foreign words on the menu and went with the onion soup as an entree. They barely talked for the rest of my meal.
My guess is the boots stayed on.
Is there a point to this story? Not really.
It's not often that I dine alone, and the truth is that for the most part it makes me miserable. I don't want to hide behind a book like my road warrior old man was prone to due during his 15 years of nonstop traveling, and I refused to be one of those "look at me I'm so cool" types fidgeting incessantly with a Blackberry or cell phone.
My goal after traipsing all over the Large Apple Wednesday night was to dine at Blue Smoke, which is owned by The anky Righthander's mother-in-law's neighbors growing up. Unfortunately, the collective BBQ jones of all of New Yorks is focused on Blue Smoke right now. I ambled in there at 9:00 and was told it would be an hour for a table for one.
(On a side note, I think that Chicago is the only city in America where people eat dinner at a "normal hour" anymore. In the past 3 months I've been in Tampa (where everyone eats at 5 so they can catch the early episode of "Golden Girls" on UPN before nodding off at 7:30) and then San Fran, Seattle and New York, where it's a cardinal sin to eat before 9. So think about it, if you live in San Francisco and eat at 9, it's already midnight on the East Coast. Gastrointestinal jet lag, anyone?)
Anyway, I decided that a charming little French place called La Petit Auberge ought to hit the spot. After all, I now work for a French company, and French Girls are hot in spite of their hairiness and haughtiness. So, in I went.
Turns out the place has quite a reputation. According to the somewhat yellowed newsclippings on the wall, Jackie O used to eat there a lot. Ditto Henry Kissinger. I'm guessing they probably never ate together.
Right away, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Me: 30, jeans and untucked pink dress shirt.
Everyone else: 65, ratty cashmere sweaters, wool slacks and sneakers. The Uniform Of Old Money in New York
Undaunted, I plopped down and ordered a glass of vino, taking note f my fellow diners. In front of me: old couple. He was a tall fellow, she was British. He made faces and funny gestures, she cracked up and countered with "Ohh Richard, dahhhling, you have just got to stop." When Richard needed more wine, Richard reached over British Lady and shook his glass at the bar. It was promptly recharged.
Next to me: first date couple. She was 40 trying to look 25. He was 50 trying to look like Richard Branson (who may in fact be older than 50, I'm really not sure) She was NOT a New Yorker--blonde, chesty and squeezed into a black dress and sporting black boots, she had some kind of Midwestern girl trying to be chic vibe going on. He was a New Yorker, but tried to affect an erudite Bostonish accent in an attempt to woo the black dress and black boots off of her.
She ordered a Cosmopolitian. Waiter looked at her in that funny "you stupid American" way that only the French can pull off and brought it to her. She immediately started grumbling about how she could taste the vodka, but her gracious date so nicely decided to share it with her.
They ordered. He went with the prix-fixe option, same as me. The difference is I went with the onion soup and filet of sole. He went with the escargot and duck l'orange. She was a little scared of all the big foreign words on the menu and went with the onion soup as an entree. They barely talked for the rest of my meal.
My guess is the boots stayed on.
Is there a point to this story? Not really.
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