CRAIG'S All-American Swag

Sunday. 7 pm.

My 75-year-old friend, Mr. Old School, sits alone at his signature table just to the right of the entrance.  He may be 75 with a bum hip, but he’s sharp as a knife and one of my favorite people. His table faces everything. That way he can see who walks in, see what is happening and, more importantly, see the good ole’ American World Series game that hangs over the bar.

Like Mr. Old School, this place screams old time New York and has tons of swag. It also has tons of comfort and just enough classy decor and good looking servers to make the high price tag reasonable.  Although only a year open, you feel as though you can step back in time, and Humphrey Bogart or Rita Hayworth might walk through the door. Hunter green banquettes sit on dark green carpet, while shiny green brick tile climbs the wall. To stay with the theme, Mr. Old School is wearing a green sweater.

“I love green,” he growls in his Bronx accent with a Groucho Marx lift of the brow. “It’s a good color.”

His eyes are half on our conversation and half on the game. I pretend to be interested in the game too, as most women do but don’t really care. I’m actually caught up in the hot couple at the bar playing their own game of tag with each other.  

“Do you like me?” she asks.

“Do you like me?” he replies.

“I asked you first.”

I like you both. This could go on all night, but I don’t mind.  Good looking, young, well-dressed, and just enough wine in them so they have no regard for those around them. I think I saw them piggy back to the bathroom earlier. My kind of people. They seem genuinely interested in each other or they’re genuinely drunk.

 

“Let’s start with the shrimp cocktail. With the red sauce. Make sure you bring the red sauce. Horseradish too. But don’t forget the red sauce,” he explains to the server who gives him her winning smile and nods her head. She knows him. She gets him. This is his table.

My eyes then look to the hot sauce bartender who doesn’t pay me any mind. He probably thinks I’m with my Old School. That’s ok, I don’t really care. At 75 he’s a better date than most men I meet, and I enjoy his stories—with or without the red sauce.  

The shrimp comes and, distracted by the couple, I take a large bite. Fire runs up my nose, out of my eyes, and I fiercely grab for my napkin.

“They forgot the red sauce,” he shakes his head. “All horseradish.  Good job, dear.”

To make me feel better he starts quoting old American movies.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..” He smiles with pride. He does that. He knows all the good quotes. As Audrey Hepburn believed, “Everything I learned, I learned from the movies.” Mr. Old School once gave me a book about Katherine Hepburn, whom he met in real life at a bar. You want a story? He has one. You want advice? He’ll give it you. You want a quote from “Curb Your Enthusiasm"? No problem. He’s a real life Larry David whom he actually did meet once, and he’ll tell you the story. But whatever you do, don’t get too serious and deep with him or his eyes will turn back to the World Series. As Katherine Hepburn would say, “Never complain. Never explain.”

Just then, a hot mixed couple walks in. A beautiful Beyonce type with her Billy Idol boyfriend. Man does she have swag. If I could just have one ounce of that swag, I wouldn’t care one bit about how it looks if I finish this entire, perfect 12-ounce New York steak. As far as she is concerned, the more swag - the more to love. “So eat up, girl,” I say to myself.  This is probably the best steak I’ve had in a while, too. From her inspiration, I take another bite.

“You’re a good little eater there,” Mr. Old School says.

My eyes widen, terrified.

“You’re eating very well, dear,” he laughs.

Swag denied as I push my meal to the side. I claim I’m done (even though I’m not) and watch him finish his to-die-for meatloaf, jalapeno creamed corn, and mashed potatoes.

Later, I listen to him tell stories over a large bowl of cappuccino ice cream and two coffees.  He shares the tale of how he met his now ex-wife 50 some odd years ago. How he whisked her away to San Francisco on their very first date. I guess chivalry isn’t dead. He is alive, sitting right next to me.

The coffee now has me wide awake, but Mr. Old School likes to be in bed by 8:30; so although the night is early, Mr. Old School is done and ready for bed. He loves his nightly routine of getting into bed and watching his favorite shows.  With a kiss on the cheek and a big hug, he turns to me and says, “Well, you know what Napoleon used to say.”

“No. What?” I indulge him

.

“That he preferred his bed to his throne. But don’t confuse me with Napoleon.”

I love this guy. And for me the night is still young. Goodnight Mr. Old School. “Tomorrow is another day.” 

RATING: 

CRAIG'S

8826 Melrose Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90069

(310) 276-1900

http://www.craigs.la

SALT HOUSE long distance affair

Wed. 9 pm. San Francisco Downtown.

Whitewashed exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and a sculpture of individually hung light bulbs float above me. I sit down at the smooth marble bar with a large mirror hanging overhead so that I may see the crowd behind my back.  The guests congregate around the dark wood communal table that holds center to the smaller two and four tops dispersed throughout the restaurant.

This is San Francisco chic at its finest. Clean cut men, fine tailored suits, mixed patterned apparel that doesn’t match but makes sense to my senses. Business women wear simple pony tails and subtle red lip gloss so as not to distract from the deal being presented on the table. But they will close the deal, their Birkin bags tell me so.

I watch lady bartender, who’s in law school, prepare my drink of gin, cucumber and orange flower water. “This is called the Always and Only,” she tells me. That sounds like a lot of commitment, but I’m flattered, thank you.

I told Los Angeles I needed to get away for a few days. Without much notice, I just packed my bags and left. We didn’t fight or anything. Nothing like that. Actually we’ve been really good. I don’t know what’s going on.

It’s not you LA, it’s me.

I need some space to think about our future, my future, where I see this relationship going. Just a few months ago, I almost moved to New York and, although I’m glad I didn’t, I feel like this is my time to explore my options. Play the field for awhile. I know you always tell me I want what I can’t have. I know, I know. I know you say San Francisco is great and all but…

Look it doesn’t matter. I need space to clear my head. If you didn’t let me go, I would resent you. If we are meant to be, then I will come back. I want you to let me miss you.

To the left of me at the bar, a handsome older man sits beside me with his daughter. I think it’s his daughter. I hope. What is it with men and women half their age? I swear…oh, wait, it’s his daughter. Never mind.

My taste buds hold hands to sample the blend of tangy, spicy and fresh olives marinated in orange, chili and mint. My teeth then sink into the tender lamb shank that falls right off the bone. It sleeps in a sauce mixed with onions, marcona almonds and pomegranate. No need for salt in this house.  

Everything is perfect. Not a detail unlooked, not a sip unliked and not a bite untouched. The crowd progressively gets louder, and I sit alone at the bar watching the lives of others.  For a split second, I feel lonely.

The business women hand over the papers and shake hands with their male counterparts. Success, I presume. They will have their cake and eat it too, while I scoop my last bite of coffee crème with cinnamon homemade whipped cream. I didn’t need to eat it all, but I wanted to. I don’t need that Birkin bag either, but I want it.

I wish I had someone to talk to, and lady bartender is nowhere in sight. She is now on her break, so male bartender takes her place. He refuses to look me in the eyes as he asks me what I want next. Look at me, and I’ll tell you my heart’s desire. His eyes continue to wander and his intimacy issues cause me to disengage. I’ll take whatever.

I watch him conjure up some story of bourbon, liquor, something and something.

“What’s this?” I take a sip.

“A Divorced Italian Style.”

First an “Always and Only” and now he’s divorcing me. Just like that. How quickly the tables turn.

 I remember when my ex Mr. Forever held my hand, looked me smack in the eyes, asked me to move to New York and commit to him. In retrospect, I didn’t see him every day, so of course he seemed perfect. I didn’t go through the trenches with him, so of course we never got dirty. Everything always seemed exciting, ever-changing and brand new.  Towards the end of our long distance affair, the tables quickly turned as he looked me smack in the eyes and broke my heart. I remember missing LA at that very moment.

I miss LA now as I sip my too strong Divorced Italian Style.  But don’t get a big head, LA, okay? I’m not saying I’m fully committed to you or anyone else for that matter. I’m just saying I miss you. I don’t know much else, but I know that. For me that’s enough to come back…that is, if you’ll still have me.

RATING: 

SALT HOUSE
545 Mission Street 
San Francisco, CA 94105
(415) 543-8900
http://salthousesf.com/flash/

NARESH’S a new friend

Tuesday. 7:30 pm. Main Street.

My date stands in front of the wide open movie-screen-sized window. I get a preview of the interior as Umi, the manager, greets us at the door. Come in and hang out with us. Well, don’t mind if we do.

So inviting, with its vagabond chic design. A trip for your senses. A melting pot of different styles blended so it feels comfortable, warm and friendly.  Like an old dear friend who has just returned from her travels and has a great story for you. Grab some wine, sit down and tell your tales. I’m all ears.

White orchids. All white couches and ottomans with hints of orange flavor. Orange trim, hanging lanterns and upside down orange paper parasols.  A collection of paintings that can hold your attention and spark conversation. Where did you get that? Who did it? Umi, casually and without inhibition, will be happy to tell you all about it. Umi will also tell you she picked that table up herself, with her very own hands, from IKEA the other day and that the large bench came straight from Bali. She is a Korean-born—so cute I want to put her in my pocket—wine enthusiast.

With a slight subtle accent, she explains and sells wine as though they’re men and she is Patty the matchmaker.

“This pinot is shy and sweet. But he might get boring after awhile as he doesn’t really have a bite. He’s nice though. He’ll get the girl someday,” she explains. “Or this one, the cab, he only comes in a large barrel and has a funky smell. So although he is a little much and needs a shower, he sticks with you, and for some reason you can’t stop thinking about him.”

Pinot it is. I’m sensitive to smell and I am into shy and sweet right now. Like my date who sits across from me. A writer who smells nice. He’s funny but not schticky. His words are deliberate, thoughtful, and just enough sarcastic. If his dialogue reads as well as he talks, I presume he is a good writer.  I Googled him before I came.  Google tells me he is, in fact, a writer and he actually gets paid to do it.

I always Google. I learned my lesson three years ago on this very same street at the place right next door. It was my second date with the guy, sipping wine, wearing a way too mini mini, when my date proceeded to tell me he was a registered sex offender in the state of Ohio. From that day forth it was “All hail Google.” My handy, trust worthy friend. 

Umi recommends the Chicken Tikka skewers with mint, and my date wants to try the Samosas as we talk about our favorite romantic comedies. He’s a real When-Harry-Met-Sally kinda guy, and I admit I didn’t look at my phone the whole evening. Not even to Google.  But I can’t tell yet if it’s just friendship or something more.

It’s a slow night for Naresh’s, so Umi continues to introduce me to more men of her liking, including Naresh himself, who shakes your hand like he knows you and looks forward to seeing you soon.

You come back now you hear? Oh, I will my friend. I will.

RATING: 

NARESH’S RESTAURANT AND BAR

2420 Main Street

Santa Monica, CA 90405

(310) 396-9227

www.nareshsonmain.com 

ROCKWELL deliberate intentions

Friday. 10 pm.  Birthday party.

Enter through a Los Feliz back alley into Big Sur serenity. Log cabin stone, candles lit, and open wood beams.  No cabin fever, though, with the fresh air and artfully dispersed crowd.

Rockwell is a two-story tree house built around a magnificent tree that thrusts skyward through the center of the room.  Its deliberate placement center stage evokes a sense of calm and perspective that only nature can create. Chill out, lounge about, just be yourself. No past, no future, no worries. Have a drink. 

The roots of the tree anchor my feet so firmly that my eyes are drawn to the branches that frame the starless sky.  Upstairs, I perch at the top and look down with a bird’s eye to scope the scene and choose a place to nest.

With one sip of my too-syrupy-sweet margarita, my aerie reverie crashes to earth, and I ask for a different drink. Maybe tequila on the rocks.  But only one drink tonight. I have work in the morning and money doesn’t grow on trees you know.

Henry David Thoreau wrote of going to the woods as a way to understand what it means to live life deliberately. A life so deliberate that, on his death bed, he would know he truly lived. After my ex, Mr. Forever, turned into the Big Bad Wolf, I have deliberately dated men completely different than what I typically am attracted to. With apologies to Frost, I want to take the road less travelled by, hoping that will make all the difference. 

I look over at my date swaying his head in time to the soulful beats of the DJ who hides beneath the stairway to heaven. This is the first time in forever I have brought a date to a party. Although bringing him here was deliberate, I’m not quite sure about my intentions for him. I like him, I do. But I admit I’m a bit reckless right now. I don’t know how ready I am for anything serious. I kind of just want to swing freely from the branches, make no apologies, and wear killer shoes.

But I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy him or that he didn’t make me laugh. I would also be lying if I said I didn’t deliberately try to push him away at times just to see if he would come back.

With a clink of a glass and a kiss on the cheek, my date whispers his intentions for me as I breathe in the tranquility and composure that is Rockwell.  With the tree poised firmly behind me, I feel the freedom to give no answer and make no decisions. Instead, I smile, relax, have a drink, and enjoy a night well-lived at a bar built around a tree.  

RATING:

ROCKWELL

1714 N. Vermont Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90027

(323) 669-1550

http://rockwellvt.com/