(The new Willow Waif coasters at the bar. What are writers supposed to take notes on? Photo Socotra.)

Everyone was bracing for what is going to come at the end of the week. Mother Nature is going to open up a can of humidity and warmth- the heat index is supposed to spike up over the century mark and the sweat is going to roll down the insides of our sodden shirts and make the bright floral prints of the sun dresses cling damply to the curves of the ladies.

It was starting to get sultry already. There were two civilians parked at the end of the bar in Old Jim’s place, and I knew there was going to be trouble if they didn’t finish their wine and move on. I was surprised to see both the Johns- with and without H- chatting about midway down the long dark bar.

Elisabeth-with-an-S was topping them up with Happy Hour White, and turned and smoothly grabbed another tulip glass to place in front of me on the new Willow coasters that feature the gaunt heroin-chic lady whose image graces the inside entrance in the glass atrium of the building.

“Hey,” I said. “You are getting some hours this week. And what’s up with the coasters? What am I supposed to write on when I am interviewing Admiral Mac?”

“Maybe you should bring your own paper,” said Aimee crisply as she walked by with the check for the civilians, who apparently were lightweights and leaving after a single glass of wine. Aimee is fitting in, and I can only describe her as having an acid wit like Rhea Perlman on Cheers only better looking.

“You had better knock them back, Boys” said Elisabeth. “It is going to get busy here soon.”

“It is always busy,” I said, taking a deep draught of the crisp cold white. “That’s why we flirt with you when we get here because you don’t pay attention later.”

“No,” she responded with that sly shy smile she has. “The Dames are coming.”

(Elisabeth-with-an-S preps for the coming Willow Happy Hour. Photo Socotra.)

“What?” I said cleverly, then launched into the song from South Pacific. “There is nothing like a Dame…nothing in the wooooorld….”

John with an H joined in: “There is nothing you can name….”

Jon without concluded “That is anything like a Dame.”

“Don’t get out of control,” said Aimee crisply.  “Les Dames d’Escoffier is no laughing matter. Owners Kate and Tracy both belong and this is the Spring General Meeting for the DC Chapter of the Dames.”

“What is it?” I asked. “A cooking group?”

John with said: “You know Escoffier, don’t you?” John is of the ancient tribe of WASPS from Boston, washed up here in DC with some vague job at Main State in the aftermath of the overthrow of the old social order.

“Of course,” I said. He was the man who brought haut cuisine to London and then America. Didn’t he do the basic cookbook for French cuisine? I think he cooked in New York, too.”

(August Escoffier in his prime. The famed chef eschewed any canned ingredients in his legendary gastronomy. Photo courtesy Les Dames D’Escoffier.)

“He was a rock star of cooking,” said Johnwith. “He cooked for Kaiser Wilhelm onboard the Hamburg-America Line SS Imperator coming across Atlantic after a gig at the Carlton Hotel in London. The meal was sumptuous, and featured the Kaiser’s favorite strawberry pudding, which Escoffier named fraises Imperator. Willie was so impressed that he summoned him to have breakfast the next day and you know what he said?”

“Do tell,” I said, hoping Elisabeth would be attentive to our just requirements for re-fills. There were women coming in groups through the front door, filling up the cocktail nook and the aisle between the bar and the little tables. They were well-dressed, well-coiffed and all business.

“Well, the Kaiser said to Escoffier: “I am the Emperor of Germany, but you are the Emperor of Chefs.”

“No shit.”

“For real, or at least that is what they say.” Aimee slid a piece of paper across the bar.

“Here is what you are dealing with,” and she glided off. Aimee glides. Elisabeth bustles. Moved the paper to a place near the coaster and between the Jo(h)ns. There was a mission statement:

“The Dames D’Escoffier is a world-wide philanthropic society of professional women leaders in the fields of food, fine beverage and hospitality. The invitation-only membership, composed of 28 individual chapters across the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom, is highly diversified and reflects the multifaceted fields of contemporary gastronomy and hospitality.”

“Impressive,” I said. “No men.” The Jo(h)ns nodded, and with the civilians gone, Old Jim assumed his traditional position anchoring the entrance and we slid down to consolidate space as the bar filled with highly diversified and multifaceted women. One of them stood exactly as tall as your average floor lamp, and her head was adorned with the most extraordinary scarlet hat. I excused myself to ask her if I might take a picture for tomorrow’s story.

“Story?” she said with a wondering look.

“It’s sort of a blog,” I said. “Canned ideas. It is a marvelous hat.”

(A lovely hat at Willow. Photo Socotra.)

Slightly disconcerted, she gave her permission and I snapped the pic and uploaded it to the web. When I returned to my place at the bar, John said: “Look at the menu for tonight after drinks:

Willow Dinner Menu:
Wine Service
Passed Hors d’oeuvres:
Willow’s Assorted Grilled Flatbreads
Gougeres with Black Truffle Butter
Endive Spears with Blue Cheese Mousse and Candied Pecans
Dinner Buffet:
Mixed Greens Salad
Orange Glazed Chicken Breast
Grilled Beef and Norwegian Salmon Kabobs with Eggplant, Fennel, Zucchini, and Onion with Feta Raita
Barley Risotto with Summer Vegetables
Garlic-Roasted Broccolini
Assorted Petit Fours and Cookies
Coffee and Tea Service

“Man,” I said. “I wish I were eating here. It is a tribute to Escoffier. I wish I didn’t have to swim when I get back to Big Pink.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Vic,” said Jon.

“True enough. But the exercise is what keeps me sane.”

“Aimee!” bellowed Jim. “Can I get a Budweiser here?” The din was rising, and John With left for the head. I turned to Jon without and asked him what was new.

“Well,” he said slowly. “I got fired today.”

“What?”

“Yeah, HR was waiting for me this morning when I got in. Never saw this one coming.”

“Did they escort you to the lobby and take away your badge? I had to learn about how to lay off personnel when I was at the Phone Company, and the precautions you have to take to ensure that they are not armed when you tell them.”

“I wasn’t packing, and they were very nice. I filled a box and left. I got a chance to go to the pool this afternoon.” The Lovely Bea arrived, striking even amid the throng of attractive women. She had no hat.

“Does Bea know? Wouldn’t you prefer a guy who is employed?” I said with a smile.

Jon said: “I got fourteen weeks severance. I think I will be OK. I think.”

“A guy as handsome as you? Hell yeah. Just keep working on the George Hamilton tan and you will be fine.”

We drank another glass of wine, and Jon and Bea decided to go to dinner someplace else. I spent a moment talking to Old Jim about his time in the Nixon White House. For a guy who got high with Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, Jim sure got around. Of course, the Doctor used to hang out with Nixon, too. Those were odd times.

I gave Elisabeth my credit card and she bustled off.

“You know the other thing Escoffier said?” asked Jim.

“No, what.”

“He said that the Brits were crazy. He had to put out High Tea at the Carlton in London, but it caused him real pain. “How can one eat jam, cakes and pastries, and enjoy the king of meals an hour or two later!”

“That’s why I didn’t have the miniature fish and chips,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

(Jon-no-H with his signature iced tea & vodka with 14 weeks severance, starting today. Photo Socotra.)

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com