The night closes as I walk back over the bridge, Connecticut Avenue, the wind blowing, a light spray of the rain that is going to pick up, eating a double Whopper, bun and all.  The end of a date, traffic coming toward me, one slow step at a time.  I caught a bus at Van Ness, but it turned to Adams Morgan and I decided to get out.  A good day, in that I get out with an old girlfriend to see the Cubist paintings at The Kreeger.  Dinner was nice at her apartment, a Langhe Rosso, Thai from downstairs, the original Blade Runner, comfortable, but now I just want to get home, tired, and tomorrow is work and it is Restaurant Week, the last night, but still a major hurdle.  The night before, a belated birthday dinner over at my brother's, the grappa at the end...  Nights I start into the wine earlier than usual.


Dreams, strange dreams.  I make chicken stock, but in vain.  It will all get thrown out.


Sunday night, miserable.  Downstairs gets a busboy.  M is the food runner.  A has the phone, seating parties as they come, finding space.  By the end, I just want to get out of there.   Let the downstairs closing server wait for the kitchen guys to finish cleaning up.  Sebastien comes up to keep me company, just as the last customers leave.  Restaurant Week strangers standing around put you in a mood, and the last thing you want is regulars.    Leave me alone, eh.  So Sebastien is sitting now at the end of the bar, where we put the clean glassware, wiped clean from the washer, onto mats.  He always sits there, right in the way, even when you've told him.  So he's droning on, about the same things he always talks about.    He is moving, to Virginia Beach.  I should come with him.  And finally, checking in on the kitchen, I pour a half glass of Beaujolais.  Talking to people takes a lot of energy.  You've been doing it all night long, at the bar, and you've about had it.

Even our stellar soldier, the nice young lady from Mongolia, sweet, strong, steady, is angry with how we've been staffed tonight.  The short end of the stick, and we've been clearing all the tables, stacking the dirty plates, picking them up off the low tables, or taking them back from the narrow back room, needing a long reach, a lot of work, sore muscles tired out the next day.