In honor of Restaurant Week, some friends and I went to a French restaurant in the south end of Boston last night. Restaurant Week is a tri-yearly occurrence where an assortment of chic Boston-area eateries create a discounted menu in hopes of jazzing up business. Unfortunately, some of that extra business comes from kickass ragamuffins like myself hoping to taste - if but for a moment - the robust nectar of affluency. Affluency must be an acquired taste.
I cannot explain what I was doing at this place outside of that I seem to flock toward free or discounted dinners like Brad Pitt flocks to a-list starletts. I don't care for French food, to be honest, I don't particularly care for France. The last time I was in Paris a brasserie tried to pass watered tomato paste off as ketchup, a fact not made clear to me until after my dejeuner was smothered all up in this Parisian lie. As if that weren't bad enough, France was also the site of my first petting zoo experience, my first flamingo experience and my first bloody knuckle experience caused by said flamingo biting my hand for no good reason.* This is France to me, so we're already starting off on the wrong foot at Les Zygomates, the restaurant we attended last night.
The problem is that I just don't have any class. I can occasionally muster up enough fakery to fool people, but by and large I'm a goober and a mess. I am to buffoonery what James Frey is to lying. My frou-frou night at Frenchie's is an example of said buffoonery.
The badness started roughly nine seconds after entering the restaurant. Walking in after the rest of my friends, the first person I noticed relaxing in the lounge area was an ex-girlfriend of mine from way back. Well, she wasn't exactly an ex-girlfriend and she wasn't exactly from way back. She was a girl I went on a few dates with in October and lost interest in because she was too regal for me.° I tried to maintain the friendship but I went about it all wrong and ended up probably confusing, frustrating and eventually angering her into ignoring me. I can't claim to miss her much, but - as I never seem to run into anyone by sheer accident - I immediately entertained the idea that I had been duped. That I would, in any moment, by flanked on all sides by all the previous women in my life.
I wasn't ready for this. I was wearing scuffed shoes and hadn't combed my hair. I was unsettled. I did my best to hide behind my friends. It was at this moment that I realize that I hang around with a bunch of Goddamned midgets. I hunched down enough to take off a solid five inches and still towered over my accompaniment!
Our reservations were at 8 o'clock. It was 8:06 and we were still standing there like a flock of lost sheep. In my head I'm screaming. In my head I can't believe, of all the classy French restaurants in all the world, I had to walk into hers. In my head the seconds thunder away like gunshots. In my head I think my ex-whatever looks pretty. In my head, I shame myself for noticing that she looks pretty. In my head I am ridiculous; I am redonkulous**. In my head I'm wondering what the fuck reservations are for if I'm still forced to wait around like some regular walk-in. Six hours later, the out-of-place hipster host beckons us to the back of the restaurant (the "Music Room") and it is the last I see of any of my ex-female-persons-I-have-ever-batted-an-eyelash-at.
Les Zygomates was exactly what you'd expect of a posh French wine and jazz bar in the artsy loft apartment-area of the Chinatown district of Boston. Unless you have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about (in which case... the place was nice). Lots of redwood fixtures, framed portraits of famous wine advertisements, a bar that ran the length of the Music Room and a ladder-accessed alcove for the musicians. Consisting of a drummer, a trumpeter/conductor, an upright bassist and a piano player, the area for the band was no bigger than a jail cell and overlooked the rest of the bar like a band pit in a cabaret. The band was tight. Not KISS tight, but passable and pleasant.+
The four of us get seated in front of the windows at the table closest to the band which made me feel as if we were being displayed like the cowboys of the western age used to do with hanged prisoners as a warning to other outlaws. Apparently Les Zygomates hadn't been forewarned about my mohawked-clad roommate's pension for amusing himself by amicably waving to strangers as if they were longtime friends. He does this on the street from time to time and the result is always the same: 1. He smiles and waves.
2.The stranger in question - prone to the same human nature as the rest of us - immediately waves back with a confused smile while they try to connect where they know a blue-haired Phillipino. "Is he from school? Do my kids know him? Oh God! Was it from three Friday's ago when I blacked out?!"
3. By the time they settle on the idea that my roommate is crazy and they do not, in fact, know him - he is gone.
Add a pane of glass to this formula and you now know what my roommate entertained himself with for the duration of dinner.
Shortly after we are seated and have fully soaked in the atmosphere of jazz and wine and hoity-toity 29-year-old accountants and salesmen with waxed chests and eating disorders (pure assumption, I haven't any proof) we are greeted by a sour-faced waitress with a modicum of natural beauty but no kindness to speak of. She is unkind to us throughout the entire meal, which means one of two things: she 1) is French and has found a wonderful job placement for herself here in the states. Or 2) she took one look at us and deduced (correctly) that we are uncouth morons and that nothing good could come out of serving us.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Oh come now, Adam. Surely you couldn't have been that bad." No, no. I appreciate your apprehension, I do. But our waitress was right to wish she had the gelled-up car salesman and his satin scarf-clad lady friend at the table next to us. For your amusement I have included some of the classier occurences to take place during the course of the meal:
- - As previously mentioned, one of my roommates was decked out in a tweed jacket, dress pants and high-flung blue mohawk. Throughout the night he ate the garnish off his escargot plate and then convinced me I should do the same. It tasted like plastic. My roomate in question, in between the second and third course, almost made me spit my free water all over the table when - as the busboy (busman? busdude? busperson?) was taking away our emptied plates - quickly and desperately grabbed the small finger bowl of whipped butter from the guy. When the busboy looked at him accusingly, he calmly replied, "oh, I'm still working on the butter." At that point, there was nothing else on the table, not even a knife with which to spread the leftover butter... just the Goddamned butter. That's it. He's still working on the finger bowl of butter... this comment still kills me. You people thought I was exaggerating when I said we have no class.
Shortly after we are seated and have fully soaked in the atmosphere of jazz and wine and hoity-toity 29-year-old accountants and salesmen with waxed chests and eating disorders (pure assumption, I haven't any proof) we are greeted by a sour-faced waitress with a modicum of natural beauty but no kindness to speak of. She is unkind to us throughout the entire meal, which means one of two things: she 1) is French and has found a wonderful job placement for herself here in the states. Or 2) she took one look at us and deduced (correctly) that we are uncouth morons and that nothing good could come out of serving us.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Oh come now, Adam. Surely you couldn't have been that bad." No, no. I appreciate your apprehension, I do. But our waitress was right to wish she had the gelled-up car salesman and his satin scarf-clad lady friend at the table next to us. For your amusement I have included some of the classier occurences to take place during the course of the meal:
- - As previously mentioned, one of my roommates was decked out in a tweed jacket, dress pants and high-flung blue mohawk. Throughout the night he ate the garnish off his escargot plate and then convinced me I should do the same. It tasted like plastic. My roomate in question, in between the second and third course, almost made me spit my free water all over the table when - as the busboy (busman? busdude? busperson?) was taking away our emptied plates - quickly and desperately grabbed the small finger bowl of whipped butter from the guy. When the busboy looked at him accusingly, he calmly replied, "oh, I'm still working on the butter." At that point, there was nothing else on the table, not even a knife with which to spread the leftover butter... just the Goddamned butter. That's it. He's still working on the finger bowl of butter... this comment still kills me. You people thought I was exaggerating when I said we have no class.
- - The rest of us were no better. A buddy of ours who does not actually live with us, but might as well, was so enamored with the immediate service swanky restaurants give toward refilling waters, that he began drinking just to see how long it took for the waitstaff to refill his glass. After a while, he was drinking just so his glass would get refilled, not because he was at all thirsty.
We have no manners.
- - Look, I'm not soured, okay. I understand that we need young go-getters in this world; I shouldn't hate on those who do the things that young professional America should be doing. I could certainly stand to comb my hair, bathe seven days a week and drop the word "kickass" from my daily vocabulary. I should also draft a letter of apology to Les Zygomates for having plagued them for nearly two hours with our unabashed Robert Heinlein-ish unawareness. No one gave us a hard time, no one made fun of my poor clothing attempt to match a wine red collared shirt with a navy blue sweater and for that, I am appreciative.
Even the mean waitress with the angry pucker - she utilized the path of least resistence with us - by ignoring us completely. Our tip reflected our anger, but upon further ponderance, I wondered if we should have really blamed her? I didn't even know what the devil a "frite" was and why it went with steak. You should've seen my face when I discovered a frite was a frenchfry.++ And sweet Lord don't get me started on dessert. I learned a few things about the French this night; the most important lesson being that the French are liars. They call two scoops of icecream Mousse Ou Chocolat. Fuck that. You can call it what you want, it was two scoops of icecream. And Creme Brouille...? The loose translation of this had better be "burnt yogurt" or else I'm gonna be real pissed.
Anyway, can I really hold a waitress' poor service against her when, upon our greeting, the four of us collectively waved off wine (at a wine bar) in favor of water (which was free) and ordered, not off the menu, but from the paper flyer inserted into the menu for Restaurant Week? I mean, if you're a waitress and this all happens within the first twenty seconds of greeting your new diners, what did she really have to lose?
Did we enjoy ourselves at Les Zygomates? Heck yeah. Would we go back? Yes, but they probably would request that we not. Do I foresee a change from my normal hot-dog-and-frites-in-a-red-plastic-basket-with-a-refillable-rootbeer? Mmm. No. Each of us, are who they are. And I am a ragamuffin and I am kickass.
* Okay, the flamingo might have had a good reason. I poked it's beak with my finger. I didn't poke it hard, but I guess hard enough that the pink destroyer saw fit to punish me by ripping chunks of skin from my hand - a punishment I still do not feel fit the crime.
° How regal, you ask? Regal enough to fit quite well in a place like this.
** What is "redonkulous"? I've heard this term for several years, but it seems to have really picked up steam recently. Did Kanye use this word on MTV? Is Ashlee Simpson entitling her new album "Redonkule"? Why is this fake word so popular? Was ridiculous just not strong enough, that people feel compelled to bend the middle of the word, like a guitarist bending a string to fit the note?
+Halfway through our meal, the band would take a break and Les Zygomates began piping in Stevie Wonder. This not only caused me to battle urges to shimmy throughout the second course (this place was too fancy to shimmy, they surely would have thrown me out) but it also seemed to undercut the jazz quartet, like personally giving the fat kid in gym class the confidence he needs to do participate in dodgeball only to immediately slam him in his head your damn self.
++I housed my steak like a junky hoarding crack and stared at my plate-full of frites when panic struck. Does Les Zygomates serve finger food? Do I eat these french frites with my fingers or do I hafta fork these motherfuckers? The four of us at the table were indecisive. I eventually chose to go with what I knew and use my fingers. With each bite however, my eyes darted around the room like a fiend scannin' for cops.
Anyway, can I really hold a waitress' poor service against her when, upon our greeting, the four of us collectively waved off wine (at a wine bar) in favor of water (which was free) and ordered, not off the menu, but from the paper flyer inserted into the menu for Restaurant Week? I mean, if you're a waitress and this all happens within the first twenty seconds of greeting your new diners, what did she really have to lose?
Did we enjoy ourselves at Les Zygomates? Heck yeah. Would we go back? Yes, but they probably would request that we not. Do I foresee a change from my normal hot-dog-and-frites-in-a-red-plastic-basket-with-a-refillable-rootbeer? Mmm. No. Each of us, are who they are. And I am a ragamuffin and I am kickass.
*** *** *** ***
* Okay, the flamingo might have had a good reason. I poked it's beak with my finger. I didn't poke it hard, but I guess hard enough that the pink destroyer saw fit to punish me by ripping chunks of skin from my hand - a punishment I still do not feel fit the crime.
° How regal, you ask? Regal enough to fit quite well in a place like this.
** What is "redonkulous"? I've heard this term for several years, but it seems to have really picked up steam recently. Did Kanye use this word on MTV? Is Ashlee Simpson entitling her new album "Redonkule"? Why is this fake word so popular? Was ridiculous just not strong enough, that people feel compelled to bend the middle of the word, like a guitarist bending a string to fit the note?
+Halfway through our meal, the band would take a break and Les Zygomates began piping in Stevie Wonder. This not only caused me to battle urges to shimmy throughout the second course (this place was too fancy to shimmy, they surely would have thrown me out) but it also seemed to undercut the jazz quartet, like personally giving the fat kid in gym class the confidence he needs to do participate in dodgeball only to immediately slam him in his head your damn self.
++I housed my steak like a junky hoarding crack and stared at my plate-full of frites when panic struck. Does Les Zygomates serve finger food? Do I eat these french frites with my fingers or do I hafta fork these motherfuckers? The four of us at the table were indecisive. I eventually chose to go with what I knew and use my fingers. With each bite however, my eyes darted around the room like a fiend scannin' for cops.
No comments:
Post a Comment