07 May 2010
 
Taste of Spring


Microsoft Office was finishing me off late in the day. I was peering at the screen, trying to figure out why no one was responding to the urgent notes I was sending, and realized the stupid program had defaulted to “offline” status.
 
All the information I tried to convey to my colleagues was clogged in the outbox, but unsent. Once I figured that out, I was able to transmit the afternoon’s constructive labor in one swell foop, and then reverted to “offline.”
 
That was unsatisfactory, and I shut the system down and re-booted only to find that Outlook arrived determined to stay disconnected from the network. The Dow had fallen a thousand points as a snap-shot and it appeared the world might be ending. Screw it, I thought, I can be disconnected anywhere and not tethered to the desk.
 
We don’t have a receptionist anymore, at least not full-time, and my office is the nearest one to the door. I am accustomed to jumping up to talk to the FedEx guy, or UPS, or inviting guests to sign the book in accordance with National Industrial Security Policy.
When the irritating buzzer went off shortly after four, I get up, scowling at the computer.
 
Then I smiled. Doc was in town from the West Coast, and he had buzzed the office door at the height of my discontent.
 
He was prepared to sit down at the wobbly little table that dominates my work-space, and I waved him off.
 
“Let’s go drink some wine at Willow,” I said. “The world appears to be going to hell in a handbasket, and we may as well enjoy the ride.”
 
Doc agreed. He is a poet, among other things, and one of those genuinely happy people. He has great kids who are well started in their adult lives and a wife he has loved for almost forty years.
 
We walked to the elevator and plunged eight floors down to the street. Arlington was at its best; the sky was clean washed and deep blue, some high cirrus clouds scudding along to filter the harshness of the late afternoon sun. We walked across the boulevard, curious as to whether traffic would stop for us as we ventured out on he wide white-painted stripes.
 
“In Seattle, they stop,” said Doc.
 
I looked at the Escalade hurtling toward us. “Here, they don’t always.” The big SUV did grudgingly slow enough for us to get across to the median. The patio of Willow had no patrons due to the early hour. I suggested we go in and sit at the bar. As we reached the door, I noticed someone hunched over one of the potted plants and looked carefully. It was Willow’s co-owner, the accomplished Tracey O’Grady. She was putting the same level of attention into the plants outdoors that she had put into the lamb dish she had cooked as America’s 2001 representative to the most prestigious culinary contest in the world, the Bocuse D’or.
 
Tracey is a lady of modest stature, slim and with chestnut hair and a merry smile. I said “hello,” and introduced Doc to half of the creative dynamo that has produced the nicest restaurant on this side of the river.
 
She was gracious, as always, and accustomed by now to the accolades of her fan base. I mentioned how nice the book signing had been, and how enjoyable the whole affair had been. I have to finish “Knives at Dawn” to fully understand what she went through to prepare for the competition, and what it cost in terms of psychic energy.
 
Doc and I then walked into the bar, where the light reflected off the rich wood. Jim was anchoring the end of the rail, as he always does, and we pulled up a couple chairs and sat down.
 
Peter was restocking bottles on the other side, and paused in his labor to see what might invite our attention. Doc was interested in something light, with citrus highlights, and Peter offered us a couple choices. He is far more than a bartender; he is part sommelier, part host, and sometime counselor. He has rich brown eyes and a solicitous manner that is tinged with mischief.
 
Doc chose the fruitier of the two offerings, and I agreed. Jim said that the market had rebounded- the chaos may have begun with an erroneous command to an automated sell-off that transposed “million” to “billion.” I nodded. Microsoft undoubtedly was at the bottom of all evil, and thankfully, to my knowledge, they were not in the winery business.
 
Doc missed lunch and I had a late one, so I was not hungry. I did recommend the spicy pork spring-rolls on the Neighborhood Bar Menu, a sort of tapas-style list of offerings that Willow sells for $5 each. Doc opened the menu and looked down the list:
 
Crispy Fried Crab or Pork Rolls
 
Mustard Crème Fraiche - Spicy Soy-Lime Vinaigrette
 
Portobello Mushroom "Fries"
 
Warm Gruyere Cheese Puffs
 
Hummus, Onion Dip, Gaufrettes, Cheese Straws & Pita Chips
 
“Try the Miniature Fish & Chips,” I said. “It is nothing like hunks of cod and potatoes- it is more an Asian tempura. Fabulous. It is a fantasy of halibut, scallops and calamari with a house tartar sauce that is to die for. Of course, the hot Crab & Artichoke Dip is not bad.” I looked down the list and sighed. “There is nothing bad on the list.” My stomach growled and I thought I could sit right there and do nothing but sample for the rest of the evening.
 
Doc opted for the spring rolls and the Calamari Ali Olio. Jim ordered another Budweiser- he is old school- and negotiated a half order of the Willow roasted flat-bread, with
wild mushrooms, lemon, thyme, fontina, parmesan cheese and white truffle essence.
 
We progressed to a chardonnay with significant oak overtones when the food arrived, and it vanished with alacrity. Peter topped off our glasses, which is a benefit of being a local.
 
We covered a lot of ground with the wine- the lives of spooks and poets, and how to make money off art that we give away. No solutions, and no answers. But the questions got better and better.
 
“Nice place,” said Doc, looking around as the happy hour crowd swelled the room with chatter.
 
“You bet,” I said. “And the amazing thing is that we haven’t even talked about Kate Jansen, the co-owner. She used to own Firehook Bakeries in Alexandria, and she is the inspiration for all the baking here.”
 
I contemplated the marvelous golden color of the wine in the glass before me. “I imagine we can get to that tomorrow,” I said lightly, “that and the Bocuse D’or, and the whole business of the knives at dawn.”
 
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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