Distractions

Posted November 4th, 2004 by Michelle

I got back to my car tonight after a fascinating dinner with my friend Jon (more on that later) and saw a note on my windshield under my wiper. It read “My name is Katherine I think I scratched your car but it’s dark please call me”. I got out of the car and had Jon shine his lights on the driver’s side and sure enough, there is my paint, her paint, a bunch of mud (?) and nice long but shallow dents on the door and the body. I called her, and she was very gracious. but the really sad part is that the repairs are going to cost at least what the car is worth. They’ll have to paint both the door and the body. A real shame… but I’m glad I won’t be paying for it.

Jon and I had dinner at La Boucane. I have a hard time believing that even a google search will come up with any good info on this place; they aren’t even listed in directory service. But what a totally surreal night. We got there 45 minutes after they were supposedly open but found a deadlocked door; we tried to call, but couldn’t find a number, and so we knocked. An older man answered the door and ushered us in to a “lover’s table” (about which Jon and I, essential brother and sister, couldn’t stop giggling) and then he went to the back and reappeared in a chef’s coat. This man brought us bread and water, opened our wine, cooked and delivered our food, and entertained us with stories about Napa 25 years ago. Three other tables trickled in, at which point Jon and I were left to our own devices for half hours at a time as our host opened their wine, cooked their meals, and told them stories. He was as fascinating as the old craftsman house that housed this restaurant; the wallpaper was floral and faded, just like grandma’s, the ceiling and trim a blue that may once have matched the floral pattern but was now far too bright. The woodwork was probably gorgeous once upon a time but was now shellacked with layers of green-brown baby-poo paint. The most terrifying detail, however, were the etched mirrors that hung on the walls between the pocket doors. More floral motifs, this time with wee bluebirds, reflecting the poo-brown and florals from the facing walls. We sneaked a peek under the white rayon tablecloth to find a plastic-covered 1970’s table stolen straight from Denny’s. It was truly wonderful. The wine list was an old crusty book that had ten or eleven selections, designated by one label from a bottle of wine on each page. More often than not, though, the vintage had changed, so there was a little corrective sticky over the year. But, my god, the lobster bisque and the creamed spinach were ridiculous… almost as good as the raspberry souffle. Holy god, good stuff.

And we didn’t really talk about the election, or politics, even, other than a little ranting before dinner. Instead, we talked about our friends, and our trip to the city tomorrow, wine, women, and song. I don’t know if I can stay true to the media blackout I promised myself, not while Bush holds a press conference holding out one generous hand to the Democrats while hiding a dagger behind his back. But what I can do is give myself a little time and breathing room to recover and rebuild.

I ate more at dinner tonight than I ate all of yesterday and the day before. I’m reminded that I hate being this full.