Chez Weird

As Eve enters the restaurant she immediately feels like a party crasher. Her husband, Jack Adams, has skipped off to the men’s room while she waits on the landing, six steps above the bar area. She endures the inevitable stool swivel of the nosey patrons perched at the tiny bar. Bold about it, they check out the new arrival and it makes her feel like she’s back in college, at Rasputin’s bar, a popular place to meet friends that she had always hated for its’ meat-market atmosphere. Eve finally makes eye contact with the host; he’s a suave Frenchman, probably kind but a snob nevertheless, and he ignores her. Only when she has a man at her side are she and Jack formally greeted and their reservation confirmed. Eve murmurs to Jack “I may not be long for this place.”

It’s mildly reassuring to Eve that the restaurant is full of what appears to be regulars and she relaxes, taking comfort in the classic bistro aromas of garlic and butter; a trained chef and food writer, Eve knows the two pillars of the universe when she smells them. As they wait for a table they study the wine menu. They had skied hard all day in brilliant sunshine and their après ski party had consisted of a hot bath and vodka martinis in bed. Now they are ravenous for serious French food and a bottle of hearty red wine. They go over and over the list trying to find the Haut Brion that some of the French-speaking patrons at the bar are drinking, then realize that particular wine must be from a private stock for the VIPs only. They settle on a red from the Pyrenees that they know will do the job and follow the host as he summons them into the dining room. The bistro has operated in the valley for forty years and it still has its’ original décor. Entering the dining room is like stepping into a cheesy strip joint in Montreal with mirrors everywhere and poles in the middle of the room. Even the exhausted Christmas ornaments are too tired to cheer. But the room does have a certain warmth and conviviality so Eve, still feeling a bit edgy, keeps moving forward. The table looks promising: fireside with grand butterfly chairs. But when the host makes a flourish of laying fake sheepskin rugs on the chairs all Eve can think of is “lice trap”. As she gingerly settles into her fur cave, the service door explodes open just over her right shoulder. She prays the wine will arrive soon.

Eve’s touchiness that evening was unusual. Typically a vivacious optimist, she’d endured an episode on the ski lift that still made her fume when she thought about it. Jack, on the other hand, laid back and unflappable, had forgotten all about it. All day they had chatted with strangers on the lift, as is the skier’s custom, a kind of friendly speed-dating where vitals like hometowns, kid-configurations, and occupations are exchanged in a polite spirit of camaraderie. The chatter is common and considered one of the perks of the sport; Eve and Jack, always friendly saw it as an opportunity to learn something new.

They had been hammering on FIS for hours having a blast when he found them; he actually followed them to the lift and joined the chair. Eve knew he was an AA within the first 100 yards of the ride and she was not happy. AA is ski-slang for arrogant asshole, and they had a double dose on their hands. On the first lift ride up he told them all about his fabulous existence; Eve and Jack said nothing. They kicked his butt on the run down, but they couldn’t shake him in the lift line. On the second ride up he actually sat between them, inserting his unctuousness right into their harmony. They learned all about his brilliant career. Outraged by his rudeness and determined to drop him, Eve set a vicious pace on the aptly named Exterminator; but when it was time to load again, there he was, the stalker. On the third ride up he had the nerve to fire up his Blackberry and share text messages while chatting on his cell phone. Eve was ready to blow a gasket. Disembarking, the creep suggested a particular run and Eve said “I don’t think so, pal, have a nice day.”

The whole experience had been short but toxic and a good reminder of why they had chosen to live in Vermont over two decades ago when they had married. Still, it had left Eve really pissed off and she couldn’t quite reconcile why. Her anger was not directed so much at the AA, he was merely a symptom of a society growing ruder and more self- absorbed everyday. Rather, the anger was at herself, for permitting such a jerk to steal their peace. Why hadn’t she told him to stop-- she didn’t owe that man her politeness, she had given away her power by permitting his rudeness. Eve chewed this over with Jack until a charming waiter appeared to take their dinner order; as he delivered a basket full of hearth baked bread, Eve felt a wave of calm wash over her. She knew that the restorative power of a good meal would go a long way and she promised herself that she would be more mindful and articulate in the thick of things the next time.

Despite the sketchy décor, the bistro’s food far exceeded any of Jack and Eve’s expectations- it proved to be the perfect antidote to Eve’s mood. Escargots in a delicate beurre blanc kissed with exactly the right amount of garlic. Little batons of puff pastry standing at ready alert to recover every drop of the exquisite sauce. Toasted skate-wing in browned butter —Eve’s favorite bistro food—swimming in a shallow pool of lime and tomato coulis, every morsel a dream. The filet of beef was perfect, it was cloaked in an herb-rich béarnaise sauce and accessorized with piped jewels of potato and squash soufflé. Eve and Jack were so engrossed in the food, and in each other, that they didn’t even notice them until it was time to order dessert.

By the boldness of their stares, it was obvious that the couple seated across the fireplace had been studying Eve and Jack for a while. He was a tight looking rat-faced man, probably and IRS auditor who enjoyed his work. She looked equal parts cruel and bitter, not necessarily by nature, but surely by nurture. They’d been together so long that they looked more like siblings than spouses.

In an instant Eve can tell that the man he is unfaithful to his wife. By the purse of the wife’s lips, she knows it too. He is wearing a set of silver bracelets on his right wrist. They are so incongruous to the energy that the couple emits that he might as well be wearing a flashing neon sign advertising his infidelity. It’s not the idea of the bracelets, per se, that sets off Eve’s alarm, but the fact that he is wearing two of them. The palpable unhappiness of this trapped couple gives Eve the creeps, and she turns her attention to a friendly duel with Jack over a sugar crusted bowl of crème brûlée. Restored and happy, they prepare to leave, and as Eve rises from the table and she can feel the rat’s beady eyes x-ray her ass. It feels like an electromagnetic zap, the kind of unpleasant electrical zing that is sparked by too much static in the air. Eve is weary, she wants to go now, to be free of weekend foreigners who pollute her ears and assault her eyes and her sense of tranquility when she is in the mountains with her man.

Kim Dannies ©2008