Report from the Bar

dinner at Via Carota a few weeks back...

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of an evening in my own company. I was attending an event at the Grolier Club in midtown which was a treat in and of itself—but the event also turned into an even bigger gift. When it was over, it spit me out onto East 60th Street at 8pm on a Tuesday with no direction whatsoever.

The first thing that happened to me was that the sun was sinking fat and molten perfectly caught in the sliver of sky visible to me between the surrounding buildings. It was an unreal sun, so I decided to chase it. This wasn’t exactly advisable, since you usually loose the sun when you chase it, which is exactly what happened in this case. Then I was on Fifth Avenue, so I thought I’d better walk a little bit. Maybe across the park? No.

I turned south, thinking that though I had no idea where I wanted to go—and by this point, more importantly, what I wanted to eat for dinner—I might as well turn myself in the direction I would eventually need to head. I walked by The Plaza, which shimmered in the evening light. If I ever ran for mayor, I would run on a platform that promised to remove all building and zoning regulations as long as you promise the building you’re going to build will be as beautiful (if not more beautiful) than The Plaza Hotel.

Walking down Fifth Avenue I thought I’d catch the bus, and became confused by the profusion of bus stops (sometimes three spread across a single block!), and watched a few busses go by me, standing dumbly at the wrong bus stop or otherwise caught in the abyss between the last one and the next one. I looked up and the moon was out, a lovely perfect half.

Eventually I got myself picked up, and we shuttled downtown in the increasing dark. I got off at 12th and walked west on 11th so that I could see what was going on at Gene’s. What was going on was a barfull of regulars and not a seat open for me, so I walked on, picking up where I’d left off with my previous indecision, briefly being delighted by a pair of police horses, and then picking up the indecision again.

There was only one thing for it. If there was an open seat at the bar at Via Carota, I’d take it. Otherwise no dinner for me. By now it was almost 9pm. I crossed my fingers and toes, and there were three seats for me, just don’t take the one in the middle. As I sat, the couple to my left paid their check and left. It was almost just me for a moment, but before long my companions arrived, and every vacant stool was filled.

The man in the far corner to my right ordered the salad I wanted but couldn’t get because a salad at Via Carota feeds six. It’s really not a very good place to dine alone because it’s so difficult to abandon the things you really want but aren’t hungry enough for. The salad I wanted and that he got had fava beans and walnuts, just like it was made for me. He and the woman he was with ordered too many salads, which for two people is any number of salads greater than one.

Next over closer to me was another man who ordered what I wanted, which was the grilled ramps followed by the tonarelli. This may have been the perfect order and it also may have been the first time I have ever been to Via Carota and not had at least a bite of someone else’s tonarelli. I won’t eat cacio e pepe anywhere else.

To this discerning gentleman’s left and to my right were a big couple. Truly, they were both extremely tall and big boned in the real way, not in the way that your grandmother might apply the phrase to a fat girl she thinks is a nice girl too. They were both blonde, him natural and her dyed. He sported a man bun and a fanny pack slung cross body, which he did not remove during their meal. I feel like maybe they were from Wisconsin.

He almost ordered what I wanted, which was the double pork chop special. The bartender asked him how hungry he was, to which he replied “medium hungry” which is a completely meaningless measure of hunger. When the bartender then warned that it was quite a large portion, he responded that a large portion was good for his medium hunger. It seemed all was ago, but then on the turn he thought to ask how much the quite large portion of double pork chop would cost.

$76, so he got the meatballs instead, which is not what I wanted. I don’t think they were what he wanted either, since they have very little heft at all and couldn’t possibly be enough for a medium hungry man like himself. He told his fiancee—who ordered the ragu—that he thinks waiters should say how much each special costs without being asked, which may or may not be true.

Then there was me, charmingly scribbling down my observations on all my dinner partners without them knowing it. My special pasta arrived—stracci with fresh pesto—and I turned my attention to the couple on my left as my main course attraction. Unfortunately, they were quite boring. I don’t like to say it because what if someone someday eavesdrops on me at the bar and thinks I’m boring? I’m sure it’s already happened.

They were boring. He talked about work, something about his biggest client, something about only 10-20%, something about allocations, and something about a woman named Karen. She said “that’s interesting” in the least interested voice I’ve heard in some time (people are usually genuinely interested in what I have to say about my boring job, of course). He said something else about a family office that I guess was a joke because he laughed, but then again maybe it wasn’t because she didn’t.

They were recently married—at least somewhat recently because the background on her phone was a black and white photo of them on their wedding day In it, her veil is over her face, and he’s looking down at her veiled head with a very serious expression on his face, like the photographer told him to think about how fiercely he loves his queen or something unsettling like that.

Right as I was ordering a scoop of vanilla gelato for dessert, Barbara showed up and sat to the left of the boring couple. She’s a gardener it seems, since the bartender, who knew her by name, quickly struck up what was destined to be the most riveting conversation of the evening about what flowers were blooming in their respective gardens.

As I tried to tune into their channel—the gardening channel—boring and boring decided to order dessert and thought the Zabaione sounded good, but does that have alcohol in it? Yes. So she leans in and tells the waiter she can’t have it because she’s pregnant, very early, and she sounds so delighted to say it out loud to this stranger, and her husband, when I catch his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, looks so delighted to hear her say it. They ended up getting a scoop of gelato themselves, with fresh berries on the side. How lovely to be boring.

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