The Bistro
One brisk winter day, I wandered like a tourist through Georgetown, D.C. Cobbled streets led me across George Washington’s C&O Canal and beneath an elevated on-ramp and down to the Potomac River. College crews in bright-colored shells water-skeetered along the gray, choppy river. A chilly wind carried sounds of traffic and, this being Washington, sounds of eternal construction. I selected a bench where someone had left a yellow balloon tied to an armrest, where it bobbed above me in the breeze.
I pulled my jacket
close. It’d been several years (well over a decade since a Capitol Hill internship)
and I marveled at the crowd of buildings that now extended south all the way to
the Watergate Apartments which, once upon a time both before and after the
ignominy of the Nixon years, was the only large structure along that stretch of
the Potomac in either direction.
Waning daylight shooed
me back into town, as did waxing hunger, and in time I gained the windowed
shops that line M Street. At an Italian grill – black and white awning, potted
geraniums on the window ledge – I went in. The room buzzing with patrons even at
that early hour brought back memories. Directed by the host to a small table with
a white tablecloth, napkins in rings and shiny silverware, I set my jacket and
briefcase on the chair opposite, loosened my tie, and surveyed the menu. The spaghettini
Bolognese was a clear choice.
As I was by myself, I scanned
the clientele. My eyes soon settled on an extremely pretty woman sitting at the
small bar. She was with a man whom I guessed was the owner or perhaps the manager
of the establishment. She did most of the talking, until her acquaintance would
interrupt her on occasion to greet a guest or instruct a waiter. The woman was
young. She had long dark hair and the cheekbones and eyes of a classic beauty. She
wore a black parka, open over a black top and black pants which tapered to just
above the ankle. Plain gold hoop earrings and a simple matching necklace completed the ensemble, plus small leather
sandals, one of which dangled from her instep like a calling card.
The woman motioned with
her hands as she talked and often placed one of them on her companion's arm. He
faced her, his knees near hers and the heels of his expensive shoes hooked on
the rungs of the high wicker stool on which he sat. The woman sat half facing
him, toying with the stem of a pair of dark glasses and taking sips of sparkling
water. She might have been flirting with him, yet he was noticeably unresponsive
to her advances if that's what they were.
How could this fellow
not be captivated? Why was he not joining her in repartee or paying more
attention? Was he accustomed to her attractiveness or just preoccupied with his
job? Was she his sister? No, her mannerisms were not those of a sibling. I fancied
he might be gay.
I ate slowly and finished
the tasty Bolognese. I ordered dessert, cheesecake with chocolate drizzled over
it and a dusting of powdered sugar around the edge of the plate. I ordered
coffee, which was delicious even though it was sure to keep me awake. I was in
no hurry.
The lovely woman paid
no attention to me, oblivious of the fact that I had been watching her off and
on during my meal. When her companion left her alone from time to time, her
uninterested gaze swept the restaurant but never
encountered mine. Nor did I stare at her in a way that would be impolite. For
that matter, her inattention prevented me from being rude; the place was small and
eye contact was not unlikely.
The noted 17th Century
diarist Samuel Pepys wrote, "A strange slavery that I stand in to beauty,
that I value nothing near it." I make no excuse for being like most men, enslaved
as it were by feminine beauty. Art galleries the world over and statuary and
poetry dating back millennia agree. "Truth is beauty, beauty truth," or
however that goes. So it is that on subways, in airline terminals, waiting to
cross a street, on beaches certainly, and in bistros and coffee shops, beauty
is there to be appreciated. That evening, in that restaurant, the woman was
exquisite.
The check came. I
didn’t reach for it. A few minutes later, my waiter returned to inquire if
there was anything more I required. I shook my head, then checked the time on
my phone. I toyed with the straw basket of the centerpiece bottle of Chianti, plucked
at the wax on the candle. I rearranged the salt cellar and wooden pepper mill. Several
times. The waiter came back and hovered at a nearby table. I folded and
refolded my napkin into different shapes. I sorted the contents of my wallet,
then did it again. I ordered another glass of wine – my third, I think.
As I sipped, suddenly
the pretty lady at the bar looked to have been deserted. The fellow she’d been
with went to greet a table of people he seemed to know and joined them. Surely
now she'd look my way and smile. Then she did!
More than that, she
slid off the tall stool and began to walk toward me, slowly. The nearer she
came, the more gorgeous she was. God in Heaven! What do I do now? She was only
steps away.
I
rubbed my wine-bleared eyes and looked again ... just in time to see my wife wave from the doorway, shed
her coat, and make her way toward me. The apparition of the past hour-plus must
have disappeared; I didn’t see her leave.
"So how'd it
go?" I managed as my wife moved my briefcase and sat down across from me.
She was beaming. "Terrific!
Motion granted, case dismissed, happy client. Badda-boom, badda-bing."
In
her go-to-court white blouse with the ruffles down the front, a tasteful scarf and knee-length skirt, shining
auburn hair, bright wind-glazed cheeks, and lipstick in place as always, she
looked radiant! I was smitten.
She ran her finger through
the traces of powdered sugar on my dessert plate and tasted it. She said, “I
deserve cheesecake.”
Councilor Pepys, I rest my case.
