A Brilliant Birthday

One of my dearest friends had a birthday not too long ago and it just so happen to fall upon a Monday this year. The night before her birthday, we celebrated with her family over a lovely home-cooked dinner, but one simply must celebrate their birthday on the actual day when in the company of Seattle's Darling, so my friend and I arranged to meet for a celebratory drink at a local neighborhood bar, The Rob Roy.

It was only fitting since my friend and I, whom I had originally met when in high school, but for awhile lost touch with, reconnected at a swanky cocktail party that the owner of the Rob Roy threw a few years back and we have been inseparable ever since, surviving endless adventures, including a road trip up the Golden Coast, numerous change of residences and more heartaches one should ever have to count.

It had been sometime since last we've been in to The Rob Roy, the black quilted leather covered walls still exuded the feel of stepping into James Bond's private den, complete with psychedelic 70's art work, a mounted boar's head and the sexiest of mid-century chandeliers. And though, many of the familiar features of the bar were a welcome sight, we did notice a number of upgrades that had occurred since our last visit: new leather bar chairs, an expansion of bar stools, a pair of sleek Braxton Studio end tables, and a pair of Louis Ghost Armchairs. Swanky and sexy indeed.

We grabbed a pair of seats, at the far end of the newly upholstered leather bar. Our bartender that night was beaming beyond belief, he had just recently became engaged. As my friend and I sipped Fernet and savored a few choice libations, our jubilant bartender did not hesitate in the least to share with us his engagement ring and how he met his lucky lady, giving my single friend and I hope that, indeed, "There is a lid for every pot," (as one of my friend's co-workers so colorfully phrased it.) As we began to feel the effects of the alcohol we attempted to come up with a few of our own metaphors: A stem for every vase; A candle for every candle-holder; A glass slipper for every foot (pedicured or not.)

To help further spur our creativity (for better, or worse) we decided to grab just one more drink and ended up at The Coterie Room, which is by far my favorite purlieu in the Emerald City. Prominently positioned on the corner of 2nd Avenue and Blanchard Street in a fetching 1900's brick building lined with a row of tall, multi-lit windows, The Coterie Room is, essentially just that, a room, but one that exhibits restrained grandeur and is seeping with understated elegance. Evocative of The Palm Court at the Fairmont Olympic, though not as tony by any means, the softly-lit, ivory-colored dining room features a titanic crystal chandelier suspended in the exact center of the lovely box-beam, tin-covered ceiling. As an auxiliary focal point, on the south wall adjacent to the bar, is a lush wall composed entire of living plants, a subtle nod to the standard greenery one would expect to find in the grand lobby of any classic luxury hotel.

Again, we perched ourselves at the end of the bar, though this time the bar was wrapped in zinc instead of leather. As we settled in to our seats, it just so happened that a scion of one of the Emerald City's premier clothier houses was paying his respects to the charming, petite and heavily inked bartender.

My friend, having lived in France for some time is quite versed in the French tongue and, of course, French wine. From the adorable bartender, my friend selected a glass of Le petit vin d'Avril, a fragrant, light, and fun red wine with a frivolous touch of fruitiness. I deferred to her expertise and had a glass of the same; it was the perfect choice for such a night. To help bolster our alcohol consumption ability, I ordered us a trio of cod fritters that arrived freshly fried and strewn beneath thin stripes of creole remoulade. Oh, so scrumptious!

As we nibbled on our savory notions, we struck up a conversation with a gentlemen sitting next to us who was visiting from San Francisco. He seemed to be rather versed in both spirits and finer food and quite congenial as well. Shortly after introductions, he amicably offered to share his steamed mussels generously laden with housemade chorizo and sweet peppers, and the absolute best duck leg confit I've ever experienced in my thirty-two years!

And, as we were discussing the next venue to visit on our enchanted night, if was as if by magic, our wine glasses seem to have refilled themselves. Uncanny how just one more drink somehow seems to turn into several more! (Truth be told, a nod and a wink is all it takes to prompt a well-polished bartender to pour another round.) Wine wasn't the only thing a sly smile was able to conjure up, for shortly after our refill our adept bartender brought out a candlelit cinnamon fritter under a layer of caramel apple sauce. And, as if on cue, our new acquaintance from San Francisco began singing a rendition of Stevie Wonder's "Happy Birthday." "And I'm sure you would agree/It couldn't fit more perfectly/Than to have a world party on the day you came to be..."

We just couldn't let the celebration end there, so we wandered over to the Market, winding our way through alleys and side streets and down a nearly hidden switchback staircase until we reached our final destination: Zig Zag. One of the Emerald City's foremost cocktail dens. My friend and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to exhibit this beloved gem with someone from another cocktail-centric city.

As we set foot through the door we were greeted with a series of embraces from the hostess, one of the bartenders and several bar patrons, before being ushered into a wide, comfy booth that fit the trio of us perfectly. To continue the French-leaning evening I ordered a Champs-Élysées for my first beverage. My friend, another glass of wine, and the San Franciscan, who was still hungry, the house gumbo that featured smoked alligator andouille sausage and assorted seafood.

In between drinks, I roamed the around the rose-lit room and chatted with several friends I knew, leaving my friend in the hands, or arms rather, of the San Franciscan. I knew I didn't have to worry about her falling into trouble, so to speak, she's old enough to look out for herself, the night being her birthday after all and placing another year underneath her belt. While on my social rounds, I was able to arrange for another round of birthday drinks offered to the table, and again for another candlelit dessert to appear, which prompted us all into singing "Happy Birthday" a second time, but this time with an even bigger cast.

By the time we left the bar, we gained one more in our entourage and the four of us made our way back to where the evening began, near the Rob Roy, where my friend had parked her car. As the San Franciscan did his best to convince my friend to keep the evening going, even throwing in a good-night-kiss, the newcomer did his best to attempt to keep me from interfering. I told him, "Oh don't be afraid, I'm not interfering; that's not the right lid for that pot."

'Tis lonely at the top.

I looked forward to the evening with enthusiastic anticipation accompanied with an ounce of anxiety. To calm my nerves and ease my eager heart, I arranged to meet a friend for a few glasses of Prosecco before the start of the party. In between sips, we caught one another up on what had transpired in our lives since last we met. Between bites of Manchego drizzled with lavender honey and grilled sausages over a nest of lentils we went from the recent past to the distant future and where might our wanderlust may take us next.

All too soon, the appointed hour struck, and it was time for us to begin our ascension to the party. Up a series of steps, we climbed, and continued up a hill until we reached Upper Fifth and followed the tree-lighted avenue to the base of The Tower, a tall, dark monolith; the tallest tower in the Emerald City, and, at its conception the tallest of its kind throughout the West. We entered The Tower and remarked on the unimpressive remodel that had compromised the skyscraper's original lobby before stepping into an elevator that took us mid-way to our destination, The Club. After a transferring of elevators, we had arrived at The Club.

In line, I was greeted by a pair of friends who were just as fashionably late as we were. At the registration table, I was welcomed by another friend who did not even bother to ask if I were on the list and simply handed me a trio of drink tickets. Another flight of stairs awaited to usher us into the main ballroom.

The ballroom was stifling crowded and near chaotic. A long line snaked around the perimeter of the sharply angled room, past a buffet table, and meandered behind a judges' panel and eventually led to a illuminated bar carved of ice, back-dropped by an infinite view of the Emerald City. No less than a minute after my entrance I ran into another friend, a fellow cocktail aficionado, who, I later discovered, with little surprise, was one of the judges for the evening's cocktail competition. Then, a pair of neighbors came our way to let us sample a few of the libations that were being offered. Several seconds later I felt a tap on my shoulder and was reunited with a childhood friend, and after a ring of introductions I was descended upon by yet another friend, this one a former neighbor who brought a work colleague with her. They joined us in the serpentine line and another round of introductions were made, shortly after I received a text message from one more friend wondering as to where I was. More kisses hello, more welcoming hugs, and more layered introductions, and thus so the evening continued.

Ever the social hummingbird, I flitted from one circle to the next, and to the next, and on to the next. With a French Manhattan always in hand, I darted between servers balancing trays laden with bourbon based concoctions to pay my respects to elevated bartenders, gossip with stylish ballet enthusiasts, encourage mischievous sommeliers, deflect blatant social climbers, intrigue savvy real estate developers, tease prolific financiers, toast successful writers, listen to passionate legal wranglers, entertain glossy tech talent and dish with fashionable web marketeers. The clink of glasses, sparkling laughter, and genuine conversation surrounded me; in this atmosphere, I was entirely in my element.

And then, I saw Him. Intrinsically I knew He would be there. No raven, nor sparrow forewarned me of His arrival. Inside, I knew, the one person, amongst a swarm of hundreds, that I so longed to see and yet also dreaded to see, would be there. His eyes, the same as I remembered them, of the bluest steel sparked with golden flecks of amber. His disarming, near smirk of a smile that carried just enough charm... just enough to make you wonder if His thoughts at any given time were naughty or nice. His gentle hands, the same hands that once softly held mine across a candlelit table not so long ago...

What to say? What to do? How to act? There was no avoiding one another, and, as protocol required we exchanged salutations, automatically I continued to weave a further web of introductions including my friends that immediately surrounded us. And though, for most of the evening, social obligations drew us apart from one another, we invariably kept drifting our way back into each other's presence. Perhaps it was his intoxicating smell, of evergreen, musk, leather and tobacco leaf, or the sound of his lofty voice that kept pulling me in his direction.

Whatever the case, with a heart ever so heavy, I chose to keep the discourse light; and as we made conversation of inconsequential things, I could scarcely look into His penetrative eyes for fear of losing the last ounce of my reserve and revealing, with a simple glance, all that my heart ached to say to Him, instead, in between silent sips of my potent beverage, my downcast eyes gazed at the casual way He left the top button of his light blue Oxford undone and the confident, nonchalant manner in which he wore His stripped tie loosely knotted. It was thrilling to be in such close proximity to Him once more, but simultaneously nerve-wracking. Joy. Relief. Excitement. Wonder. Sorrow. Disappointment. Grief. Sadness. Hope. All such emotions, and more, bundled together, cacophonously presented themselves to me all at once, while I found myself having to deftly handle dozens of interruptions, inquires and introductions by unknowing, well-intentioned fellow friends.

As fate would have it, I was not the only one with a heart brimming with turmoil. Another dear friend was experiencing a similar set of emotions under somewhat parallel circumstance. She and I removed ourselves from the party and sought refuge in a secluded spot by the staircase to share our angst and worries with one another. And as tears trickled down the cheek of my tenderhearted friend's soft face, I attempted to console her with kind words and the sincerest of embraces, and that is when I heard His hearty chortle of a laugh and a profusion of memories rushed to the forefront of my heart unbidden... of a morning when hope was found, and a night not so long ago when hope was lost. Were it not for her tears, and the resolve to stay strong in order to be effectively supportive of her, at that point, who is to say if tears of my own would stain my face.

That night, on the edge of it all, high above the Emerald City's scintillating skyline, surrounded by scores of friends and allies, amongst a throng of hundreds, it seems no matter how high, or how far I went, one pervasive feeling haunted me: profound loneliness.

One, please...

My spirits were mostly up, (but not as high as I'm accustomed to having them,) and my blood-sugar level was on the decline. On my way home, all I could think about was indulging in a really nice steak to pick me up. Working Downtown and living in Midtown I tend to traverse 4th and 5th Avenues and sometimes forget how convenient a playground the Pike Place Market can be, which is where I ended up last night.

As I exited Yamasaki's iconic Rainier Tower, having come from yet another Seattle Architecture Foundation event, out of habit I headed to my favorite bar on Upper Fifth, Vessel, which, unfortunately, for the time being is shuttered, as of last month. I found my feet carrying me onward and Westward thinking to myself, "Hmmm... where could I get a nice steak?" I wasn't in the mood for a steakhouse, or a grill, or a gentlemen's club. I wanted something a bit more vibrant, yet cozy and intimate. I figured the Market was my best bet, and it was.

Of course I had Place Pigalle in mind, but they are currently undergoing a renovation as their building is simultaneously being retrofitted. Then I thought about Shea's Lounge being in the mood for a place that leaned towards the informal, yet still carried a hint of elegance. They too, were closed, Matt's in the Market, however, was not.

"Do you have a reservation this evening?" the host asked.

I replied, "No, I do not. I was wondering if there, perhaps, might be room in the bar?"

"For how many?" he continued.

"One. Please." I answered without the least bit of hesitation.

"Of course, this way please."

I hung up my wool, All Purpose Service Coat and plaid, Pendleton scarf and followed the tall, trim host through the full dining room and to the bar that seated eight, comfortably. As I sat down at the last available seat, positioned at the elbow of the bar, I opened up the drink menu and glanced at the cocktail list. I was pleased with what I saw, every drink listed was made with spirits of reputable quality, of which I was familiar with.

The bartender, Benjamin, knew his craft well. My first beverage, a Manhattan of sorts, was beautifully balanced with rye, cointreau, bitters and orange peel, instantly it made me recall the amazing sunset that occurred mere hours before: bright, crisp and golden with a haunting orange hue.

Though the dinner menu offered a wide array of tempting plates, ranging from Arctic Char to Pork Belly, I still had my heart set on steak and ordered the Painted Hills Tenderloin, medium rare, of course.

As I nestled into my corner perch I glanced around the rose-lit room. To my right sipping on Chardonnay were a pair of women each paired with her own beautiful handbag. To my left, alongside the other arm of the bar, sharing a bottle of Portuguese wine with their dinner, was a chap originally from Manchester, but on an overnight trip with his ever-so-poised wife, up from San Francisco proper. How she was able to lift her wineglass with the weight of her radiant-cut, 4-Carat wedding ring was beyond me.

I myself, was dressed in premium Levi's, with a cream-colored, wool sweater knitted in Italy, brown suede boots made in England and adorned with a single, silver bracelet from Tiffany & Co., I felt my outfit blended me in quite well with the quiet, effortless elegance of my fellow diners and imbibers. The crowd did not exude an air of indulgence, decadence or pretentiousness, as one might expect. Rather, it was quite plain these people were just out enjoying a midweek meal, one that just so happened to be of a luxurious quality. No stranger to luxury myself, I couldn't help but chuckle as once again I appeared to be one of the youngest looking guests in the room. Around us, every table was full, with the demographic leaning toward those with more than a number of years under their belt in the professional world. Each patron enjoying a lifestyle years of success had afforded them. My assumptions were further asserted upon recognizing a client of mine, a dapper (bow-tie and all,) gray-haired attorney who's office is on the 52nd floor of the skyscraper I work in.

As I sat, sipping on my delightful, liquid concoction, I myself reflected on my upcoming 11-year anniversary at the floral boutique, my recent appointment as a Tour Coordinator at the architecture foundation earlier that evening and a few other personal milestones I've recently surpassed and felt as if I've seen a share of success in my life as well.

I couldn't help but observe the handsome wait-staff as they glided around the dinning room with efficient grace, each action and movement with a purpose and meaning. They appeared as if they were all dancers, but instead of performing on stage for our eyes to behold, they were among the audience, moving around us and through us, with their goal to be as transparent as possible.

Or perhaps, we were all on stage? The line between spectator and spectacle thus blurred. Situated on a second story, the restaurant boasts large, over-sized, arched windows trimmed with simple strands of white Christmas lights, the effect resulting in an echo of a series of proscenium arches subtly reasserting a theatric feel to the venue.

But the drama at Matt's isn't seen, nor heard, it is tasted. The first bite of my beef tenderloin was absolutely delectable. Presented prettily on a white, square plate, the petite cut of vegetarian-fed Oregon beef, raised without hormones or antibiotics, was served with patatas bravas over a bed of braised greens, drizzled in a dark, slightly pungent sauce, alongside a pile of herb-infused butter. I leisurely took my time as I gently let every taste-bud satisfy itself with each savory bite.

The single ladies to my right, vacated their posts for greener pastures after one more round of wine, while the jet set couple to my left ordered dessert and French press coffee. I was questioned about my cocktail, my origin, my opinions on various restaurants and hotels in the city, my profession, and even my smart phone, (which I kept in the pocket the entire evening until asked about it.)

I had questions about the impetus for their impromptu trip to the Emerald City; what life is like back at home for them, their three children and two dogs; other places they enjoy traveling to (the Greek Isles are spectacular apparently); and Manchester City F.C., (which was previously owned by the notorious Thaksin Shinawatra the ousted Prime Minister of Thailand, but currently held by a group of Abu Dhabi investors.)

As we chatted, the Manchester chap felt emboldened and decided to order a cocktail for himself, a Rum-based beverage featuring Falernum, meanwhile a pair of Market locals quickly took-over the recently vacated stools to my right. After tasting a few wines and making a selection the newly seated pair inquired whether the tenderloin was of pork or beef. The bartender explained the kitchen receives a whole hog each Thursday and uses as much of it as they can. 

"Oh, wonderful. I just wondering. You have so much pork on the menu, I wasn't sure if the tenderloin was pork or beef, but pork is great."

"Absolutment!" I uttered in agreement.

"Parle-vous français?" she asked me in surprise.

"Eh... Non," I confessed.

"Je parle un petit peu de français" chimed the Manchester fellow, before ordering one more cocktail. While declining dessert in favor of another cocktail, a Falernum flip, I told my fellow bar-mates of my adventures the night previous around town which culminated at a French conversation night at Blackbottle.

As my night came to a close, before I departed, I quipped, "Je ne parle pas français, je parle très bien la romance."

Needless to say, I left that night alone, but I did leave with an ovation.