Read Online Vintage Attraction by Charles Blackstone - Free Book Online Page B

sidewalk receptacle.
    Unencumbered, and commensurately emboldened, I revolved back into the restaurant. From an inconspicuous corner by the coat check, I dialed Izzy from my cell phone. I made up something preposterous about having just finished a meal with a visiting poet and some of the faculty and not feeling quite ready to make my way to the Blue Line station to begin the four-mile trek home.
    â€œLet me buy you an after-dinner drink,” she said.
    She showed up in a blue-and-white taxi fifteen minutes later. “Pilsen isn’t that far from here,” she said. I reached for her hand as we walked along Randolph, headed for The Tasting Room. To my surprise, she didn’t object. The street was empty. This part of town was full of warehouses and delivery trucks and wholesale meat and produce purveyors that operated early in the day and then were dead at night.
    We took two seats in the center of the mahogany bar. There was wood everywhere: the tables, the walls, the floors. Everything was dark and polished. The lights were kept dim and obfuscating, except for the higher-wattage glow from the bulbs haloing the liquor bottles against the backsplash. A server equipped us with menus and decorated our allocation of space with silver and napkins and a small tea-light candle in a squat, unadorned container that could have doubled as a shot glass.
    I barely had a chance to handle my menu before the bartender, a blonde woman with spiky platinum hair, swept it away. After only a second’s consideration, Izzy ordered a flight of dessert wine. The bartender brought over a narrow rectangular paper placemat that had a row of circles on top of which glasses would eventually be placed. Beneath each circle, a small caption indicated what they would contain: Hungarian Tokaji, Australian Muscadelle, and white port from the Upper Douro Valley—regions of the world I knew nothing about, much less their digestifs . A spectrum of hues soon stood before Izzy and me. We passed the portions back and forth, spending a moment or two sniffing and sipping microscopic fractions, and then exchanging again. I was surprised how sweet the dessert wine was. The alcohol burn, though unremitting, began to warm my chest.
    â€œBeats vodka,” I said, turning the glass I held.
    â€œOld-school cocktails are really hot right now.”
    â€œI can’t believe how many people are out this late on a Monday.”
    â€œIndustry night,” the eavesdropping bartender put in with her faint Texas twang. “Monday is the restaurant world’s Sunday.”
    â€œWhat’s their Saturday?” I asked.
    â€œSunday,” Izzy replied.
    â€œWhat about Friday?”
    â€œThey don’t get a Friday.”
    â€œThat is a confusing calculus,” I said. “Here’s to Monday nights.”
    â€œMonday’s actually a popular date night.”
    â€œMakes sense, with all the half-priced-bottle deals in the city. Nothing says love like prix fixe .”
    â€œAt the bistro, I’ve seen cheap wine backfire. I’ve seen expensive wine backfire. Did you catch those orchids in the garbage we passed? I don’t even want to know what happened on that date.”
    I’d almost completely forgotten about them, and laughed. “Something tells me those flowers are going to end up the subject of a Craigslist Missed Connections post tomorrow, one way or another.”
    â€œI read those, too,” she said. “They’re hilarious.”
    â€œIt never ceases to amaze me how badly people misinterpret insignificant gestures. ‘I was riding the Red Line, and you asked me if you could sit down in the space my bag was hogging. I felt like we really connected. Drinks sometime?’ She only spoke to you because she wanted your seat. It wasn’t love at first transfer.”
    Izzy nodded. “And, okay, let’s say it was love, right? Let’s just say that such an absurdity were possible. How