I sincerely apologize for the uncharacteristic period of silence. Counting both the sluggishness of my employment status and the resulting sluggishness on behalf of my brain, it’s a miracle I still know how to type—even though some claim I do even that incorrectly.
After hemorrhaging euros like it was my job during my four-month lark with the Frogs, it’s been an adrenaline, panic and naïvely hope-filled second month. I’ve wiggled my way out of a preposterous lease contract and am currently re-packing piles of things, which only came out of boxes less than 60 days ago, to move two blocks down. I have also returned to The Shipyard, and—cue cries of excitement—am now working the midnight shifts as opposed to the sleepy, quiet morning ones I had become accustomed to. It’s rush hour in exotic grocery land, and in that special window of the few hours for the 9 to 5 crowd, claws come out and words are not minced for anyone. Lastly, I am entering employment with a new French restaurant across the street from my new humble abode, La Maison, where I will be required to parler français with the homesick expats and experimenting university kids from down the street whilst serving up moules frites and steak tartare.
So, in less than a full month, I have gone from a dispassionate professional sleeper and emailer, to someone who will very soon be able to kiss off any hint of a social existence. And yet, I can’t help but be a tiny bit thrilled. Why, you ask? You, the readers of this tiny little blog, are the sole benefactors from my nose-to-the-grindstoning, as the cringe-worthy and heartwarming stories from this two-pronged culinary underbelly I’m re-entering are the only guaranteed results of this whole endeavor.
But, where are my manners? I promised you Justin, who deserves some sort of introduction after a satisfactory Skype and letter-filled screening period, which began during the heady summer months with a tentative postcard from Mexico and a date involving kayaks and awkward life vests. A fellow Shipyard employee, Justin is foremost, three things: thanks to weekly hours spent on the rugby field, he is the owner of a fantastic backside that prompts slaps from approximately 82.4% of the staff, someone who can effortlessly recite every line from Arrested Development, How I Met Your Mother and 30 Rock, and will order a 5:1 ratio of sushi when we stay in. I’m the 1. He wanders around the apartment when he brushes his teeth like I do, and is one of two people on earth I know who likes to drink Kefir.
As one of the few with front-row seats to the massacre that was my checking account and resume re-compilation this month, a medal of some sort is in order for his unnerving amount of patience.
Speaking of patience, last weekend my uncle was in town visiting his Boston-based girlfriend and celebrating his 31st birthday. Justin suggested dinner at Toro, a favorite tapas restaurant of ours—and, unfortunately, the rest of the city—that in an esteemed European tradition, takes no reservations. Having previously experienced an hour and a half wait, made survivable by two glasses of wine, we met my uncle, his girlfriend and her roommate an hour earlier to avoid our previous fate. Whatever strange logic we were working off of here clearly backfired—the wait was instead three hours. Unable to cram any further into the restaurant after putting our name on the ominous list, the five of us huddled by the front door, which opened and welcomed in a gust of ice wind every 5 minutes, in our puffy winter jackets.
After waving like a deranged soccer mom at the preoccupied bartender, I finally caught his attention and we settled in with our wine and the menu, eyeing the few bar stools with any chance of suddenly becoming available. A silent and deadly struggle had begun between our large party and the others near us, as we angled and positioned until the other diners were all but marooned in their barstool-less corners.
Forty-five minutes later, we had won a coveted bar spot by the window and had placed a few food orders, balancing the steaming plates on our knees and spare stool we snagged. Two hours after that, our name was called, and I hurried to close out the bar tab. I signed off for $38, a sum that to my slightly inebriated mind seemed fair, conveniently forgetting that we had just eaten three rounds of tapas along with a few rounds of drinks, which should have been upwards of $70 at least.
As we enjoyed the new view from our long-awaited table, the confused bartenders approached us, thinking that we hadn’t signed off on our tab. Of course, we had, and I had the card and receipt to prove it. But wouldn’t you know, some poor soul’s last name in the crowded bar that night was very similar to my first, a very rare occurrence indeed.
Thinking we had hit the jackpot, the five of us let out sinister giggles and clinked glasses.
Sadly, Mr. Barkeep realized his mistake and righted the wrong before we had the chance to run. “Next time,” we promised. Next time.
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