So, I was sitting in an excruciatingly long meeting in one of the anonymous squat towers on Rt. 7 when I got a text from Heather on my smart phone that I am too stupid to operate to full capacity. This one was fairly straightforward: “Join Old Jim and me for a drink?”

Of course, I thought. That is the answer to any long convoluted meeting. I typed back: “Sure. Where?”

“Willow,” she responded.

I was thunderstruck. I thought that was all over, done toast, fini. I lurched to my feet, grabbed the cane I am using again since the inadvertent but elegant tumble from the bar, and left the conference room.

It was easy finding parking- there were not fifty Willow employees staging for the evening rush. The patio still looked the same. The Willow banners were still up, the doors were thrown wide open. Inside Jim was at my usual place in deference to Tracy O’Grady, who was having a contemplative beer. Heather was next to him, and I took the last stool on the street end of the Amen Corner.

It was surreal. The stately shelves behind the bar were empty of the hundreds of bottles of fine wine. Jim was drinking the last of the Budweiser long necks.

There was some vodka left- just enough to get a buzz on. A last plate of The Sausage King’s thinly-sliced prosciutto and salami came from the remaining staff cleaning out the kitchen. Maybe Willow’s last meal. Certainly my last one there.

Tracy was in a contemplative mood, and we talked about some of the high and low points of the last decade. One of the line cooks had his family with him, kids and all, and a little boy chased Ray’s pit bulldog around the eerily empty place.

I noticed my drink was empty, and walked around the back to get on the business side of the bar for the first time. I made it a double, and when Gordon showed up Jim didn’t growl at him to get out. He was dressed in Washington-garb, double-breasted suit and bold tie, and I made him a last drink. “Last customer,” I thought, though of course, if he didn’t pay- or tip, I noticed- maybe he was just one of the last guests.

Eventually Tracy and Heather decided it was time to go- the last cleaning would be accomplished Tuesdy, and the key would go back to the landlord that tossed them out at five pm. Then I truly would be over. I got a milk carton with some menu folders, three partly-used bottles of spirits, a jug of Tracy’s exceptional wild mushroom bisque soup and one of the little signs with the Willow logo and the words: “Willow closed for Private Party.”

It is now displayed on the sill of my front window at Big Pink.

And at the moment that the keys went back to the rapacious bastards who forced Willow out of business, I was sitting down at the bar at Lyon hall, down in Clarendon.

“Why should we consider this place to be suitable for a hang-out?” I asked Jake-the-bartender.

He seemed a bit taken aback. Apparently his customers don’t interview him that often for general suitability. But I had my reasons.

“I represent a consortium with significant resources,” I said. “We are Willow refugees. We are the food and beverage equivalents of the Syrians heading for Germany.”

Jake shook his head and laughed. Lyon Hall may be the place we go.

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303