That was the weekend that was

I don't know which of y'all it was who conducted the blood sacrifices necessary to ensure spectacularly beautiful weather for Memorial Day Weekend, but you have my heartfelt thanks and, presumably, that of hundreds of heavy men from out of town as well. (Proof of the preternatural origins of the weekend's good weather--if any were needed beyond the mere experience of living through more than ten Mem Days in Chicago--was provided last night when, just as the coals were being dumped from the last barbecues and drunken friends were being shepherded onto the El or into cabs, the temperature plunged more than twenty degrees in a single hour.) There were some complaints of chilliness on Saturday night, but I notice it wasn't enough to drive people off the streets. Moreover, it gave me the perfect excuse to rub warmth into a large and wonderful Texan, so I'm the last person you'll hear carping about it. Sunday threatened storms which never came, or at least not until the very wee hours, and Monday couldn't have been nicer (at least if, like me, you can bear up under a little humidity without becoming a great big sweatball).

It's funny to me how you never really end up seeing the people at Bear Pride you expect to. I got five minutes of aadroma the entire weekend, only saw grunter the once, saw so little of profundojoe I wasn't even sure it was him until he offered to serenade me with "The Bell Song", and (unless he looks completely different from his picture) never managed to hook up with bikerbearmark at all, but I kept running into iberianbear and sfopanda who I didn't even know were coming into town (and who I'm very much looking forward to seeing again when I'm in SF this August). And then there was frenchbikerbear, who I thought was leaving Sunday and, in any case, kinda blew me off Friday night, but completely unexpectedly showed up at Sidetrack Monday afternoon and gave me a very friendly farewell. I may just send him that mash note in horrid schoolboy French after all! (I'd been wondering how I might contact some of the other sweethearts I met this trip until I saw mikiedoggie's entry and realised the bastard knows them all.)

All in all, it's worth stumbling through today in a kind of stupor (lingering effects of alcohol, simple sleep deprivation, or a combination of the two?); I seem to have narrowly avoided the Bear Flu thanks to the extraordinary efficacy (psychosomatic or otherwise) of zinc, but it's still early days. I can make it through my menial tasks at the office convincingly enough, but what I'm really not looking forward to is another real estate consultation tonight, for which I'll be lucky to feign even half-interest. At least it's out of the way early, unlike our late-night marathon session of last week.

Delightful night

Before I get into more Bear Pride debriefing, a bit about the flawless evening monshu and I had on Sunday. I slept away the morning and wasted most of the afternoon; outside, it threatened to storm any minute, so I cowered indoors with the intention of getting some housework. Finally, I headed over to the GWO's Fortress of Solitude on Sheridan, much too overdressed for the weather. Fortunately, once there I was able to change into something lighter and--throwing caution to the winds--left my raincoat behind.

I never needed it. When it did finally rain, it wasn't until after 1 a.m. Up until then, we had nothing but warm breezes and clear skies, making for a pleasant walk to and from Cotes du Rhône, a newish bistro on Broadway. We really didn't know what to expect. The menu looked unobjectionable but uninspired, and monshu said the online reviews of the food went from rave to rancourous. But particularly concerning were the almost unbelievable horror stories of inept service--and we're not talking long waits or snotty waitstaff either, but issues like having your champagne served to the wrong table and then being lied to about it.

A little odd that a place named for an appellation d'origine contrôlée would be BYOB, isn't it? I'm hardly going to object, however, if it means enjoying the last of the 2001 Muga without even suffering a corkage fee. In fact, the only thing I really objected to was the walls, which monshu rather generously described as "espresso brown" but for me recalled a rather different substance. Whatever bad experiences others may have had before us, there were no problems at all with our service. In fact, I even overheard an incident at a neighbouring table involving some scallops which resulted in (a) the dish being replaced without a fuss; (b) the cook responsible coming out to apologise; and (c) a discount on the final bill. Perhaps the manager is taking those criticisms of the front of the house to heart?

None too soon, I fear, because the table with the scallops was the only other occupied table until shortly before we left at around 8:30. But then, Memorial Weekend Sunday must be an off day (too many diners at friends' barbecues?) because La Fonda was nearly dead when we passed it moments later. I felt sorry for the server, but I treasured the quiet and the satisfying dinner conversation it allowed for. The meal also satisfied: I had a tasty smoked trout salad (even the capers didn't bother me!) and quite decent lamb chops; monshu dined on roasted beets and slightly overcooked halibut. The sides were good, but disconcertingly generous, as if the chef had just piled on a bit of everything they had. (The description of my dish specified "asparagus spears and quinoa", but it showed up with the same mashed potatoes, grilled squash, roasted parsnips, grilled asparagus and rapini as monshu's--and then the server brought the quinoa on the side!)

As for dessert, monshu confessed that what really appealed to him on such a summery night was a stroll down to the grocery store for a pint of high-end ice cream to be eaten on the couch. So that's exactly what we did, finally drawing the conversation to a close and putting on some reality tv (what has it been, three or four years since we last watched Trading Spaces? But the Princess of Darkness still reigns!) for a short while in order to make the big guy sleepy. Alas, too much red wine in me to allow for cuddling in bed, but that's what lazy mornings are for anyway.