Notes, From the wine bar:

Each night of service is completely different.  It should be, in accordance with God, because each human being is not an automaton, a number, but a soul, a rendering, by the Universe, of the image of God.

And so, two people are at the door, the tall blond red head guy, laconic, decent, and his lady, a couple who met at an Irish bar.  I've seen them before.  They like wine.  They like the things we offer at the old Bistrot of the Dying Gaul.  Which sparkling wine should we have?  Well...  I pour them a sip of both, the champagne and the flute maison.  And it turns out, they like the flute mansion, a brut sparkling from Alsace.  They start with an order of escargot, which arrive soon bubbling hot in their little iron pocketed dish, the aromas suddenly filling the air of the bar.  He orders a glass of Chinon.  She is curious about a few wines, so, sure, taste a little Muscadet, the Chardonnay is good too...  a taste of the Bandol rose.  Hala arrives.  She is going to save a seat for David, the Englishman, who will be traveling away, first to New York, then to England, then on to Morocco.  Hala sits at the end of the bar, and she liked the Cotes Du Rhone last time, and it works for her again.   I'm talking-to some people over by the front, or getting the musician's food ready, when I see Donna Rosen come in.  She likes to come on Tuesday, wine tasting night.  I suggest she taste the Bandol, as it's not often that this is on offer...  She likes it.  I'll take half a glass.  It's still happy hour, fine.  More Chinon.  David arrives.  He's been drinking Bordeaux, every time he comes.  But I pour him a taste of Rhone, a taste of Chinon, and it turns out, he likes the Chinon.  Hala has a glass of Chinon, too, sooner or later.

The band arrives.  Hot Club of DC.  I get their dinner order in.  Several more regulars, hopeful for bar seats come in, in quick succession.  One gets a seat.  The other, hmm, well, let's put him over on the closest table to the bar.  I don't push him.  He's come to wish me a Happy Birthday.  Thanks, Jim.  I pour him a little bubbly.  When I get back to him, after making Peter T. his usual Tito's martini, it turns out Jim like it.  Yes, I'll have a glass of bubbly.  Well, I'm not too busy, and I feel bad there's no bar space for him, so I come back to the table, coming out from the bar.  Taste the Alsace, taste the Rose too.  (He's been on grueling wine tours...)  He likes the first, the champagne.  I tell him the specials.  I think I'll hold off he says.  Cool.  I go back to the bar to tell the rest of the flock the specials, soup du jour, the sweetbreads app, the swordfish with tomato mango salsa and basil oil over spinach, nice thick peace of swordfish, looks good, and the venison, loin of venison with a madeira sauce served over sweet potato puree and green beans.   Ivan, the new guy, comes over... What if they want something else with the venison?  Well, just... you know, spinach... I'm busy.  It's a little tiring.  What's the liver served with?  I tell him.  Veg du Jour, mashed potato, the sauce, which is caper, tomato, black olive..  (I could have told him to "read what the menu says..."  but I don't.)

Lucia comes up from downstairs, delivers some dishes, looks around.  Kathy, the neighbor, the regular, with an instinctive sense of crazy nights, has joined in the bar, standing in the small space next to the bar mouth, next to Donna the wine aficionado who has ordered liver, doing a jigsaw puzzle on her tablet iPad.  What do I want to drink, she asks me.  At roughly the same time, one more regular woman, who comes in and out, and who has to find a place to live for herself and her two boys, as she pursues her new line of work as a baker...  She's from Singapore.  She's sat by Ivan, but comes up to the bar.  And what does she want?  Something red, she says.  Okay, fine...  I'm making Ketel Martinis up, no vermouth for another regular couple.

Lucia comes up to the bar.  Is this wine tasting night, she tells me, as a question, cold.

Her husband, the busboy, is downstairs.  I've been cleaning the glassware that I dirty, and keeping Ivan up and running, and dealing with other people.



I get orders in.  I juggle.  I  move my ass.  I twist and turn like a yogi, moving things along, dirty plates, glassware, table clearing, the mats for dining, also going through the washer.  Hala, being Lebanese--we had a nice conversation about Shemale's, up in that Foxhall Medical Building, what she gets, how the old man cooked of embassies and catering--calls my name out frequently, wanting something.  And all these people, it falls upon me, their barman, their humble shepherd, to catch up with, to suss, to share, to see quick pictures of snowmobiling in Montana with Buffalo, to hear that Jim went to Denver, for the holiday, to see his sister, and an old friend, that one, who "is not doing well."  (oh shit.)

Lucia returns to tell me again that it is not wine tasting night.   Yes, it's Ivan asking me questions night, I respond.  In the meantime, I've served the couple who likes jazz and David Shulmann and Quiet Life Motel, a bottle of Billecarte Salmon Brut Rose, and told them the specials, and kibbutzed with them briefly.  Good fun people.  Talk of the Spiritualist Church down there on Q Street.

It gets busier.  Just when I'm running and with two drink orders in my head and several more things on top of that and Hala, "Ted, Ted..."  Ivan is asking me for a lighter, for the candle on a creme brûlée,  so I look for it, opening the computer cash register, looking in the little cups here and there, and then, as the stove is lit to light the damn candle...  And then, with the creme brûlée on the bar, not far in front of the ice bin, a quiet Happy Birthday To You, rises up....  And then it goes around, picked up  by the room, and I sort of raise up from my bent over stance into the wind of it all, and look around, and nod, and the song will be over soon, and I"m caught off guard, and no time even to pour myself a drink really.

The boss's wife shows up.  Oh, great.  Dinner for them, too.  Fine.  Where would I find the wine, the Vivarais...  (Later in the corner by the bread oven I explain to him the significance of Kermit Lynch, the importer...)  Down in the cellar, Ivan, in the door, just to the left, four rows of bottles in, something like that...  He's a good guy, Ivan.  I like him.  People like him.  There's something comforting about him.  I'll let him go as soon as I can.  After he brings up the wine in a milk crate.  He managed to do a lot, and help me with a bunch of things.

Every night is different.

Kathy ends up late.  When I get her a Sambucca, the proper way, she asks me, do you know the significance of the three coffee beans...  and I have to shake my head, no, I'm too busy, and really I don't have time to spare with everything that's going on, called in this way and that way.

I get back to the apartment, Ubering in the cold with an Indian man in a Toyota van with the automatic sliding door, bringing home a container of chicken salad.  I have wine at back at the apartment.


I've dragged myself in, all through Restaurant Week, all through this week, barely able to talk without coughing.  Feeling like crap.  Sleeping all day, the shower to get me moving...  the bus in.  Talking to mom on the phone.  Marking a birthday alone, sick, on the couch, ordering delivery from Bambu....  Headaches, the cough interrupting my sleep, heartburn big time...