Dear Sandy,
° Industrial ceiling, pipes and ducts, pinky chocolate.
° Nonsmoking defined by subceiling slabs of blond birch.
° Smoking segregated by a fiftyfoot wall of sheer steel mesh.
° Granite slab table, half indoors, half out, weatherproof retractable glass walls.
° Private dining behind japanese sliding doors, interpreted in confectioner’s sugared metal and circleswirled fiberglass.
° Enough copper facingdown the kitchen to keep Ruby and a whole swampful of scouring rushes busy fulltime.
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° A Guccishod man whose bespoke sports jacket fit, not because bespoke, but because his bodyparts underlay proportionally.
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° Music alla moda, cool, ignorable.
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° A brunette alumna of a Virginia finishing school recounting the breakup of her marriage, her codependent friends, her therapist’s plans for coping with them: “Reaction is futile.”
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° Basted eggs atop diced peppers, onions, mushrooms, squash, all atop peasant potatoes, spiced to one’s platonic preconceptions of ideal taste.
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° Manicured thirtysomething boytoy designer to unaging blonde client: “Then you’re okay with that chair for the library alcove?”
° “Uhhhh!”
° Desperately.
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° On the plasma screen above the bar, alternating footage of Michael Jackson’s reconstructed nose and redandgreenyyellow Iraqi bloodandentrails splattering bystanders.
§§§§§
° La Commedia umana.
° Egging you on, Giac.
P. S. The pink grapefruit juice was superb.
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