Enigmatic Female

This Moment of Clarity Sponsored By Cafe Brazil

Recently I've had pangs of self-doubt. Did I do the right thing in leaving New York and my job when I did to move here and be married to Dallas? In that former incarnation of my life, it seemed that I lacked very little. I liked my job, loved my friends, had a large salary to spend on clothes, brunch, and the latest lip gloss, and I was learning to box with a kickass trainer who helped me lose about 20 lbs in just a couple months. Life was very very good. But, and this is a loud, painful, whiny but, I felt that all of those good things were a mere consolation prize for not having what I really wanted -- a steady relationship that could lead somewhere. And by somewhere, I mean marriage, 2.4 children, a few dogs, and a full-sized kitchen. It didn't seem that I could have the life I wanted in New York without making half a million dollars a year (not to mention not being able to find the right man), which would essentially prevent me from taking any enjoyment I could find in that life, as I'd spend sixteen hours a day at work. So I moved and got the marriage, the dogs, the kitchen, and in a couple years, the children will hopefully follow, along with a house in the 'burbs with a pool and swingset out back. Unfortunately, I threw out the baby with the bath water, and accidentally convinced myself that I had to give up all the things I enjoyed about my New York life in order to get the things I wanted from my Dallas life. I've even compromised my firm stand against chain restaurants in my quest for perfectly grilled quesadillas and good salsa (a story for another time). Today, for the first time in a very long time, I feel whole. Like maybe, just maybe, I can have both the pleasures of my New York life along with the satisfactions of my Dallas life. Today I had brunch with a girlfriend. Without Dallas. It was the first brunch I've eaten in a resaurant since I left New York. I felt compelled during my first weeks in Dallas to cook an exciting breakfast for Dallas on the weekend. It was going to be "our thing," this excellent breakfast, with blueberry cakes, and frittatas, and good sausage, and homemade biscuits. Only, it never really took, and we usually found ourselves grabbing something quickly before we rushed out of the house for the rest of the day. There was no weekend ritual like I had in New York, where I was something of a brunch hound, often indulging in two brunches per weekend, as it was one of the only times my otherwise-busy attorney friends could be certain of having free time. In those days I was willing to wait an hour for a perfect cup of Sarabeth's coffee and an English muffin, to break my pork-free diet to indulge in the thick bacon strips at Good Enough to Eat, to run the risk of seeing an ex's mother at Popover Cafe for their strawberry butter on a hot popover. A good brunch would set just the right tone for a wonderful rest of the weekend. Today's brunch showed me what I've been missing, both in terms of kindred female company, as well as the wonderful indulgence that is a cozy Saturday morning meal begun with hot gourmet coffee, and finished by jelly on toast. And, to quote my kindred female dining companion about the suitability of brunch at Cafe Brazil, "what it lacks in atmosphere it makes up for in [taste]." The meal was lovely, and it boasts something way way better than any New York brunchery -- a self-serve coffee bar with more than a dozen coffee selections to which you ferry your own thick ceramic mug and choose your own brew. Bravo!

It's My (Husband's) Party and I'll Cry If I Want To...

Tonight (it's early Sunday morning, but I'm talking about Saturday night; you get it) we had a birthday party for Dallas. We invited several people, about 15 or so were expected, perhaps as many as 19 or 20. With expectations very high, I got to work planning an extensive Spanish and Mexican menu with accompanying theme beverages (I'm a huge fan of a party having a signature drink; this party had margaritas, sangria, Spanish wine, and Mexican beer). We scrubbed, we shopped, we planned, we executed, we considered opening our own catering service. Well, maybe it was only me who considered, and only briefly, but confidence was quite high on the likelihood of party success front. To boast a bit, I make excellent, excellent drinks and pretty good food, and when I lived/hostessed in New York, my guests would almost always drink me out of whatever I was serving and sing my praises loudly. Not so tonight (they did say how much they enjoyed the food and such, what I mean is that they didn't eat much of the food, nor drink much of the drinks). Dallas asked me after the guests left whether I thought they might have been bored. I replied that I think they had a nice time, but that I thought he and I were bored. And we were. Are we getting friends that are too mature? Were we too tired to have fun? Was there an awkward melange of people that made it difficult to get conversations going? We did combine several odd groups: people Dallas knows from his former job, people he knows from his current job, his childhood friends, his brother and wife, friends we went to law school with. It really boggles the mind how much factions were present. All I know is, I can't sleep for thinking about the inordinate cost of this party (somewhere between $400-$500 with all the groceries, liquor, music, cookie cake) and that it might not have been worth it. I'm not convinced that anyone had a good time. I enjoyed seeing our friends, and meeting a few people I hadn't met before. The conversation just seemed to take a while to get going, and I was so busy during the early part of the night getting dinner ready, that I didn't really spend much time chatting with people I wanted to. And, I think some of the guests might be planning an intervention due to Dallas' and my seeming alcoholism. In all fairness, we drink fewer than 1 drink per week at this point. There was a time, before we lived together, that we would drink far more, but ever since we've lived together, we hardly touch the stuff (my theory -- we don't have the right drinking companions here and I am not a fan of drinking with each other alone at home -- it's almost like drinking alone). That doesn't mean I don't want to tie one on from time to time as mood or circumstance warrants. I might have overdone it this time, though. Our guests' eyes widened as they looked at the conspicuous display of beverages available for their enjoyment and seemed quite overwhelmed at having to make a choice.

The New York City social scene is remarkable in that no one has to drive home from anywhere, and most gatherings happen at bars or restaurants. Therefore, most parties involve drinking to the point of at least a good buzz. My friends in New York, admittedly all of them lawyers (lawyers drink more, as a group, than any other profession), keep a few bottles of nice liquor and a couple of wines on hand for company, and would never hesitate to offer it to a guest, or imbibe as a guest of another. Here it seems that this is not the done thing, likely in large part because people must drive home at the end of the evening. This means that I've been buying alcohol with New York expectations but for Dallas consumption. In real terms, it means that I have remaining every single one of the 18 Mexican beers I purchased, we didn't open the Spanish wine, we didn't drink an entire pitcher of margaritas, and we didn't finish either pitcher of the white or red sangria I made. This amounts to fewer than 4 bottles of wine, 1 cup of tequila, 2 cups of triple sec, one dirty vodka martini, a Manhattan, and a leftover Texas beer for a 3 hour party of 15 people. That is roughly 27 drinks for 15 people over 3 hours and Dallas and I had 8 of the drinks between us. This is about half of what I would expected. So, 19 drinks over 3 hours for 13 people, one of whom is pregnant, so 19 for 12 people. Less than 2 drinks per person over the course of the evening, and it's bound to be far less than that, as one pitcher of Sangria was still half full, as was the margarita pitcher, and some of the glasses were still half full. In addition to all the leftover booze, we threw away enough food to feed a Somali village through a long drought.

The moral of this story is that I've learned a hard lesson tonight -- being overprepared for a party doesn't equal success. It would have been fine without the $21.99 per pound Serrano ham we had (that no one, including us, ate), and the three varieties of olives, and the cheeses. We didn't need so much food. Plastic plates would have been far easier (I've already done 2 loads of dishes, with 3 or more to go -- we have used almost every item we received from our wedding registry for this party). The bigger bottle of tequila was quite unnecessary, as were the additional bottles of wine. And the beer. Next time simpler is better. I will serve chips and queso, have a taco bar like we had tonight (killer pork tacos), some ice cream, and some sangria and we'll call it a night.

Lola's Sausage and Spinach Black Bean Soup

Last Thanksgiving, knowing how important my family is to me, and to demonstrate his commitment to me, Dallas volunteered to meet me in Maryland to spend the holiday at my parents' house. I took the train from New York on Tuesday night, and he flew in on Wednesday evening, in time for supper. As my parents were working on Wednesday and busy putting things together for our Thanksgiving meal, I decided I would cook dinner for everyone, especially for Dallas, who loves my cooking. One of the meals we enjoyed together several times in law school was my homemade chili, so I decided to make that. My parents were a few ingredients short, so I went to the store for some beans and other assorted goods. While I was browsing through the varieties of black beans, a tall, think black lady with short curly hair told me how much she loved black beans, and that if I loved them too, that I should try her recipe for black bean soup. She was making it to take to her Thanskgiving celebration, because people always requested it. I, not intending to be diverted from my chili, listened politely, but wasn't really interested until she told me the ingredients. The soup called for black beans, lentils, Italian style tomatos, sausage, and fresh spinach. It sounded good to me, so I thanked her and she left the aisle. A few seconds later, she popped back up, as I was looking for the lentils and Italian style tomatos. She was so excited that I was going to make her soup (I still purchased all the chili ingredients, in case it was a bust), that she led me around the store picking out the rest of the things I would need. I decided to add three different colors of green peppers to the mix for some color, and to use real Italian pork sausage instead of turkey kielbasa, as she recommended. I thanked her for the tip, and asked her for her name. She said it was Leola, I thanked her again, and went home.

When I arrived home, I cleaned up the kitchen and immediately started making the soup, just in case it sucked and I needed to quickly throw together the chili. It didn't suck. I could tell almost immediately that it was going to be excellent and very very easy, probably becoming a particular favorite of mine, as I adore black beans. My mom tasted it when she arrived home, and thought it was as good as I did. I left it on the stove while I went to collect Dallas from the airport. By the time we arrived home, everyone was there, including my Aunt P**. We all sat down to eat and everyone was raving about the soup, so I told the story of meeting Leola at the grocery store, and how she had led me around picking out various items and instructing me how to make the soup just so. My Aunt asked whether I was sure her name was Leola and what she looked like. She said that the woman sounded exactly like her friend Lola, whom my sisters, mother, and brother had all met. My aunt reminded me that I had even given the woman, along with another friend and my Aunt a ride home a few summers ago when my Aunt's car had broken down. I told her to call Lola right away and find out whether it was her. My Aunt started laughing hard on the phone, and told Lola the story. It was her at the store! She asked to speak with me and I told her how much everyone was enjoying the soup, and how happy I was that we met at the store. She said that she thought there was something about me that looked friendly or familiar and now she knew why. I told her that I was going to name the soup after her and tell the story each time I serve it. As the air here in Texas has turned slightly chilly (highs only in the upper 80s, low 90s!), I've been thinking of autumn and all the delicious autumn foods that I'm looking forward to. Lola's Sausage and Spinach Black Bean Soup is at the top of the list.

Ingredients:
one can lentil soup (Progresso works well)
two cans black beans
two cans Italian style tomatos
green, red, yellow peppers to taste
one pound of good italian sausage, removed from casings and crumbled (remove from casing and crumble before cooking the sauage -- you want something about the consistency of ground beef)
one bag of fresh spinach leaves (use 1/2 bag of frozen, if necessary)

Procedure:
Sautee the sausage and the peppers together in the bottom of a Dutch oven. When the sausage is completely cooked, dump all the ingredients into the pan and stir, except the spinach. Simmer together for an hour or so until the peppers are tender. Just before serving, wilt the spinach leaves into the soup and let cook about 2-3 minutes. Serve hot with a salad and warm corn bread.

The Right Way To Hate Your Neighbor

There I sat, at Sarabeth's on the UWS, waiting. I sipped my water, introduced some freshly-squeezed orange juice into my struggling immune system, and spied unabashedly on the diners at the surrounding tables. The table to my left provided what seemed to be an uncommon family dinner for older parents and their obnoxious, Patagonia-clad 10 year old son and his cell phone. Who has time for caesar salad and conversation with one's parents when there's the Motorola equivalent of Pong to be played? Their conversation was uninspired until the bill came, at which point there was a lengthier than necessary conversation about who would pay. Finally it was settled. She would pay, as he had paid last time. Then they both laughed. Their son looked up, nonplussed. His father quickly explained that this amused them because it was all the same money. As the ever-crunchy and accepting oh-so-PC UWSiders that they were, they felt the need to show their son some tolerance, explaining, "Not all mommies and daddies do it this way. Sometimes the woman has her money and the man has his money." The son went back to his game. I applauded his choice.

The ladies to my right were far far more amusing to me, and I chuckled into my orange juice several times as their conversation progressed. They were reunited childhood friends of the same age and the same brown hair with perm that is so fashionable among the 50something crowd. A New York City Public Library tote bag sat on the seat beside the thinner of the two, a lifetime New Yorker who now works in computers, previously selling and educating users of Microsoft Word. Her friend, somewhat shorter and rounder than she, asked repeatedly, loudly, and with a giggle "are you a computer geek? Are you??" This shorter, rounder friend was covered in diamonds of the sparkly variety, which seemed somewhat out of place when worn with her handmade necklace and hippie skirt. She lives on an island near Seattle and raises chickens, she's planning a move to New Zealand soon, with her husband who is a doctor, perhaps an endocrinologist from the types of patients she described, and she hates her neighbor.

This particular island in Seattle where she lives with her husband and four chickens (one of which lays blue eggs) is one large hill, and the higher up the hill and toward the middle of the island you are, the better your view of Seattle is. Her neighbor who lives slightly uphill from her would have a tremendous view of the city, except for one small problem -- the trees on her property periodically obscure his view, as they have for the prior 16 years they've been neighbors. From time to time, he takes it upon himself to come down the hill and send his gardener up into her trees in order to top them, pruning away any of the offensive branches standing between him and the view of the Seattle skyline. As she explained this to her computer geek friend, there was a shrillness in her voice and the volume rose ever so slightly as the pace of her speech quickened enough to let me know that this truly was a sore spot. Trying to garner sympathy from her friend, she explained that topping is terrible for trees and that he had no right to come onto her property in order to do this. Recently, she found the neighbor's gardener in her tree, and incensed, she sent the neighbor a letter. The neighbor furiously called her husband at work and they attempted to work something out, whereby she and her husband would be willing to remove the trees, at the neighbor's expense, and replace them with smaller trees, also at the neighbor's expense. This was unacceptable to the neighbor, who called the police when they got too close to his property line, and who has been unwilling to further discuss the problem. But not to worry, the round lady with the diamonds had a solution: she and her husband are building an expansion onto their house in order to obstruct the neighbor's view in lieu of the trees. Her friend asked, "Do you need more space?" "No, we just want to build up so that he can't complain the trees are blocking his view -- it'll be our house instead."

Well Being

After an excellent workout this morning where I learned yet another boxing move (I'm dangerous like John Travolta in a serious movie), I stepped outside to discover that the world is b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l today. I was serene as I have never been in New York, standing on the sun-soaked corner of 81st and West End at 8am breathing in the crisp autumn air. It was partly the endorphins from the workout, and partly a conversation I had last night that caused me to wake up with a smile, despite my alarm sounding at 6:15. I didn't want it to end as I walked back toward my apartment, so I kept walking, staying on whichever side of the street allowed me the most access to the sun, and ended up at Georgia's Bakeshop at 89th and Broadway. I have only ever been to Georgia's at night or on the weekend, never on a weekday morning when it is apparently frequented by every parent on the UWS picking up a croissant or scone for themselves and pains aux chocolats (I may have butchered what one friend refers to as "the mother tongue" just then, je m'excuse, there I go again...) for their backpack-carrying children on the way to school. I waited my turn and ordered a large herbal iced tea ($3.00!!!), watched them make it fresh for me, then headed back outside, only to discover that the corner of 89th and Broadway was a chilly spot with no sun to warm it, and that my damp workout clothes combined with the breeze and my iced tea were quickly dissipating all my positive feelings as the warmth seeped from my body. I quickly walked back to Amsterdam for more sunshine and headed home, where I now sit typing, iced tea finished, in my sunny bedroom, trying to think of any excuse to not go to work just yet.

I Hardly Know Myself This Weekend

This weekend I am taking a much-needed hiatus from all things dating. I'll do some work, get in some shopping, and generally relax. Five guys in eight weeks is a full dance card and now I'm exhausted. I can't pretend to be interested in one more boring thing someone says. I'm not leaving the borrough for some half-assed date at a Barnes and Noble. I'm sure as hell not going to spend the evening making it crystal clear that I want to have sex. Done and done. Maybe next weekend I will find some reserves of energy and will jump back in the pool, but for right now it's golf balls and beers with friends, getting drunk and catching up with the girls, and getting things organized.

Last night started at The Stone Rose in the Time Warner building with a small going away party for someone at my firm. I got quite toasted on a Stone Rose (their version of a Manhattan; quite good, actually) and a Manhattan and started making wildly inappropriate comments, as I do now when drunk, regardless of the company. Like how I dropped the C-bomb six times in front of a co-worker's roommate and then told him that the reason two girls I work with don't like me much is that they think I'm too prim and proper. I don't think he bought it.

For the first time ever I kissed a woman on the mouth. In front of her husband and my coworkers. I don't think it was hot, though. It certainly didn't turn me on. We'll just be friends.

I met a coworker's girlfriend. A coworker I've had a crush on for ages. His girlfriend is about 20 times hotter than me, so there that is.

My friend, A came and met me at the Stone Rose and we went to Rosa Mexicano for dinner, but couldn't get a table in a reasonable amount of time, so went to Molyvos instead. I ate lamb. I don't eat lamb. Ever. Actually, that's not true, I've had it twice, this makes three times. A and I had a scandalous conversation about her past exploits, The Roommate, and my abusive relationship with WebMD, which has convinced me I've had such diseases as German Measles.

Lisca

For the past few months I've been on a mission to find a restaurant close to my apartment where I feel totally comfortable dining alone. Last Saturday I found it, or rather, I was led to it by another friend who had found it under the circumstances just mentioned. She raved about the wine and the tuna tartare; the former interested me intensely, the latter not so much. Intrigued by her discovery, she and I and another of our girlfriends walked in to a homey, new Italian restaurant at 92nd and Amsterdam where my friend, L, was immediately greeted by the owner, who remembered her from her first visit to his establishment, where she had dined nicely alone at the bar dining on salad and wine until he shared with her some of his own dinner and had an additional glass of wine sent over.

My friends grabbed two seats at the bar, and I stood between them. We asked for a wine list. One of the owner's two beautiful daughters is the bartender, the other a waitress. L inquired about a Super Tuscan she had tried the previous week compliments of the owner, asking how much it cost. The bartending daughter leaned in and said in a hushed tone, "that is one of our most expensive bottles." We looked at each other, expecting it to fall above $100, perhaps reaching all the way to $200. L asked how much it was and she responded, "forty-two dollars." Relieved, we ordered the bottle and three glasses, and I proceeded to catch my friends up on the status of my new "relationship." The major update was that I had slept with him the night before, was having mixed feelings about it, and thought it spelled doom for the end of our acquaintance. The jury's still out on that.

While at the bar, we ordered the Tonno Tartare (tuna tartare) to go with our wine. It was deliciously topped with a layer of Italian-style guacamole and served very cold. I am not usually a fan of the tartares and carpaccios, but this was refreshing. We were quickly joined by a fourth member of our group, Blue Shoe. The owner ushered us to a table and we were brought the wine list, as we were closing in on the bottom of the first bottle. We each looked at it in turn as our place settings were cleared away. By the time they had fully been cleared, another waiter came to reset them. We were baffled, until he brought us an order of Funghi Fritti (fried mushrooms) compliments of the owner. They were three types of mushrooms breaded and fried with a pungent garlic and thyme flavor. I thought they were quite good, if a little greasy, but the greasiness was cut by the cold fresh diced tomatoes served with it.

We ordered another bottle of wine at sixty dollars (it might have been the most expensive), which was delicious. I liked the first bottle, but the second was superior. We laughed and laughed as Blue Shoe discussed his pending wedding plans, I filled him in on the boy situation, A and L described their latest work catastrophes, and we generally made merry. We decided to order a glass of port or scotch to finish the night off, and asked for the check. L and Blue Shoe pulled out credit cards, and A and I pulled out cash. The waiter popped by to let us know that they do not accept credit cards. This was a problem.

With all of our cash combined, we were still $45 short and we hadn't been charged for any of our food and wanted to leave a nice tip. L got up to go find an ATM, and returned promptly. Too promptly. The owner had asked her why she was leaving, she explained she needed to get more cash, and he chased her back to our table saying that we're all friends here, that he wasn't going to let her walk out alone at 1am, and that she could simply sign the bill and make it up later. We had never heard anything like this, and all felt guilty. We did as he suggested, taking a small amount of the cash with us, so that the remainder would be an even $60, which is easily obtainable from an ATM, and walked to a bank. We got the cash and returned to the restaurant. The owner refused to take the money. Refused. Money. I know his restaurant is new and all, but if you're in business, you need to take the money! I stepped in an explained that the money wasn't for him, but for his wonderful waitstaff and daughter who had taken such good care of us throughout the evening. He said that we would make it up another time.

Last night was that other time. You see, I had a date with the new boy, but was canceled on at literally the last minute. It's not cool to cancel a date as the other person is getting ready for that date and has even left work early to accomodate your preference for an earlier rather than later movie. He was apologetic, etc. but I was still peeved. I decided to call around to my friends and see if anyone wanted to get dinner. No one was around. I remembered that Lisca looked like a great place to dine alone at the bar, so I headed north from my apartment, plopped down at the bar, had a cold glass of white wine, salad, pasta with seafood, and an amazing fruit tarte. All in all, just what I needed, even if it was a lot pricier than I would normally have spent on a meal for myself. While I waited for my dessert, L walked in with a college friend of hers. I joined them when I had finished, drinking a vodka mojito courtesy of the owner (since I had a bad day and all) and when their check came, L said it was time to settle up. She added the sixty dollars from the previous Saturday and a note, along with a generous tip for this time. I will definitely go back.

Solace

After leaving work a bit early yesterday (I snuck out at 6:15!), I
headed to Bloomingdale's to check out their allegedly great shoe sale.
It wasn't. Disappointed, I headed to 72nd Street to a store The
Roommate and I had stopped into this weekend, at which he found some
kickass shoes, and I saw some I coveted in the $200 range, which I
therefore did not try on. Unable to stop thinking about those shoes, I
headed back there last night, and to my chagrin, they didn't have my
size in the oh so precious $200 shoes. Twice disappointed, I headed
next door to a new nail salon, asking for a pedicure and some eyebrow
grooming. I used their bathroom, and in a moment of loopiness, which
are becoming ever more frequent lately, forgot to zip my pants back
up, a fact that my aesthetician was more than happy to point out
(after I nearly fell on my ass stepping off a step I hadn't seen) by
TOUCHING my zipper. Not a shining moment of grace or beauty. As I was
letting my newly Sangria Punch colored toenails dry, I got a call from
L, my most desired companion on a night where I felt awkward, edgy,
and a little bit crazy. She asked whether I'd eaten, I said no, and
invited her to get some sushi at our favorite spot. She happily
accepted. As I left the salon, I thought I should bring L some
flowers, as she's been having a rough time of it lately. I stopped by
a flower stall and selected five different shades of Gerbera daisies
that perfectly match with L's personality when she's in a sunny mood.
When I arrived at the restaurant, I laid them across her place setting
and waited. She arrived and was much delighted by her surprise. We
talked throughout the meal, lingered after the meal for long minutes,
finishing up the conversation that only we could have with each other.
She invited me back to her place for sherry, and I accepted. We hopped
in cab and sped a few more blocks uptown. She read me a history of
sherry, as I'd never had it before, and poured out two small glasses.
She put my daisies in water and told me she'd made me a mix CD, which
she then burned and handed to me. We curled up in our respective
seats, watched a little TV, and when it was time to go, I stepped out
into the warm night for the short walk home completely nourished and
renewed.

One More Reason...

why I am the worst drunk ever. In painstaking detail, small moments from Thursday night have been coming back to me. I remembered yesterday that while leaving the McDonald's near my office with The Roommate, I spotted one of the trainers from my gym going to Tasti D Lite (spelling? for those of you who don't know, this is THE place for flavored air, whipped up and thickened by artificial means, then frozen to resemble ice cream). I sped ahead of The Roommate and marched up to the trainer and said, "Hi there. I recognized you from two blocks away by your calves." He laughed. He admitted that his calves are enormous. I said, "Are you still with your girlfriend?" He said, "What? Oh, yeah, she's downstairs waiting for me right now." I said, "OK then, I will let you get back to that. Have a good night." Then I marched out. What did I think I was going to DO with him if he didn't still have the girlfriend? First of all, I don't find him so attractive, second, what? Me and alcohol are not the friends we used to be as I have lost all ability to be smooth under the influence, and I now verbally assault every man I see while drunk, including The Roommate, who is probably wondering what the Hell he's gotten himself into agreeing to live with me.

Strip House

We had 11pm reservations at Strip House. After a quick post-flight shower for B, we hopped in a cab and headed down Fifth Avenue. B was thrilled with the drive, as he reconnected with a city he left two years ago for San Francisco. Our cab driver made a few risky moves, and we arrived at 11 en punto. I waited for, then prompted, B to open the door for me. I gave our name to the hostess. She took my coat and asked us to follow her. There were several open tables, but it was still full enough to be cozy. Raising an eyebrow at the baby carriage pulled up to one of the tables on the way to our table, I slid onto a red leather bench seat and let B have what one reviewer called an uncomfortable wooden chair.

I studied the dining room for a few minutes; it was very, well, red. The walls were covered with rich red wallpaper with raised velveteen silhouettes of nude women (striking in their similarity to mudflaps I've seen on southbound interstates). The napkins repeated this pattern in a lighter red with gold woven through it. There were black and white glamour shots, some of them nude, lining the walls in black glossy frames, and the lighting was dim between tables, giving each table its own subtle spotlight, which made the distance seem greater than the two or three inches that separated tables for two. I was smug in my choice--the vibe was sexy and intimate with a decadence that I craved.

The waiter approached and asked B if we'd like to see a wine list. I was having none of that. I said, "Yes, I'D like to see the wine list." The waiter understood what was afoot and that I was in charge. He brought me the wine list, and I looked it over. When he returned I asked for a recommendation; he sent over the Wine Captain, who recommended the wine I already had my eye on: a 2002 Flowers Pinot Noir. I have been on a kick lately with Pinot Noir, but this one exceeded all expectations. It was amazing, if pricey, at $100 per bottle. It was perfect with our tomato and onion salad appetizer and with the steaks.

The tomato and onion salad is one of the best things I've ever eaten; B loved that they came with a bit of goat cheese on some toast, I loved the tangy vinegar and pepper dressing and the ripeness of the heirloom tomatoes. With the appetizer, the waiter brought a shot of peach and vodka heaven of some sort or another that I loved. We had high hopes for the steaks after that appetizer. I had a single cut New York Strip, B had a filet. Mine was the better of the two, as it was tender, juicy, and flavorful, perhaps not the best I've ever had, but a top 3 contender, to be sure. B's filet wasn't perfect, as it was a tad overcooked and not flavorful enough. He was unwilling to give it top 5 status. The side dishes of creamed spinach and "goose fat potatoes" (a crunchy little dome of soft potatoes, rather like a hash brown) were underwhelming, and if I went back I would just stick with the steak, the tomatoes, and the wine. Earlier we had seen what ordering dessert would mean -- an enormous slice of chocolate layer cake that was so large it was inaccessessible, so we decided to skip it and coffee, preferring to finish our wine and conversation by themselves, as both were good.

When we finished our conversation (B is a med student and I love love love learning about diseases, which he calls pathology) and the wine, there was only one other table still occupied, and we knew we should leave. We retrieved my coat and headed out onto 12th Street to find a cab. On such a gorgeous, crisp New York night, my very high heeled pink satin strappy sandals were a bad choice; walking for a bit after such a good meal would have been divine, but it was already 1:30am and those sandals wouldn't cooperate for more than the block or so it would take to find a cab. I could still taste the wine on my lips when they curved into a very satisfied smile as we drove back up Broadway, letting B take in the sights he had taken for granted so long ago when he lived here.