Another Night at the Front Room

I love going to the Front Room. Their happy hour is awesome, you can eat for really cheap (giant BLT for $6,) or you can eat reasonably fancy. They have a great happy hour and they're approximately three blocks from my house. A few months ago I had some terrible service there, but it was Sunday morning brunch, and it's possible to get bad service anywhere on Sunday morning. Josh and I used to live like, next door and I wrote about this night in 2008 and the other morning I ran into this guy at brunch. He asked me if I worked at Bayside Bowl. I just about yelled: I KNOW YOU SLEPT WITH A STUDENT YOU CREEPER LEAVE ME ALONE. I'm low maintenance and I tip well- occasionally when I'm at a table I feel like I'm inconveniencing the server, but maybe that's because their entire job is inconvenient. Or I'm over sensitive about pleasing my server, when it should obviously be the other way around.

Bob, one of the bartenders, Angela and I, have an inside joke: Angela was explaining how this cruise ship looked like it was trying to mount the City of Portland and I said that everything was always about sex with her. Bob pipes in and says, no talking about sex at the bar (though mostly stoic and never smiles, he's a good bartender and this proves yes, he has a sense of humor.) A few minutes later, our mussels come out, and a few minutes after that, he asked us how the mussels were. Except... that's what he meant to say. My mouth was full so I just nodded and gave a thumbs up, Angela and Bob exchanged a what just happened look... He actually asked us how the sex was. I change my answer from thumbs up, to non-existent. Now every time he sees us it's, "How's the sex, ladies?"

Tonight, I went by for a hot toddie and some soup. I was travelling for 30 hours, then went out when I got home I went out... and last night my throat started tickling. I set out on this rainy Thursday evening in leggings and Bean boots, a giant sweater which I pulled over my pajama shirt last from last night, meaning, no bra. My hair wasn't washed, frizzy from the rain, and pulled back in a bun. But I planned on keeping my head down at the bar, eating and leaving, plus it was cold and rainy. Once it starts snowing I'll practically live in this outfit. The meal, grilled cheese and red pepper-fennel bisque, was satisfying. Partway through, I moved over to make two open seats next to me on my left, and met some bros who started talking to me about the bowling alley... not uncommon. On my right was now a man in his late 60s-ish, having dinner with a younger guy. When I first look over, I think the younger guy is pretty hot, but then I took a closer look and was less impressed. I heard him recounting this ridiculous story about how when he was 21 and working as some sort of laborer, he would walk around the building with no shirt on, carrying 2x4s, getting in the elevator with men in suits, how he couldn't imagine behaving that way now. Maybe he could tell I was listening... I also heard him say something about his students, so he's a teacher of some sort. Could be karate for all I know.

It's pretty close quarters in there when the dining room is full, and I hung up my wet, yellow raincoat. On my way out, I push my some people, grab my jacket, go back to the bar to get my phone and my purse, and make my way to the door. There are people waiting for a table, blocking the exit and I stand patiently for a second, until they'll notice me and get the fuck out of my way, when I hear, "Excuse me." I'm shocked, my pulse quickens and if someone tries to push passed me to get out the door they'd better be on fire or in labor- otherwise they're getting a big healthy dose of "Go Fuck Yourself." I'm out the door when I hear it again, and I'm about ready to thank that person for chasing me to return my wallet/cellphone/whatever I've left at the bar, and it's that guy. The shirtless at 21 guy, and he's leaning into the door at me. He's taller than I expected. "Would you like to come back here and have drinks and some dinner with me?" Holy shit! This stuff actually happens to people. Maybe my new contacts are working? I wonder what the 60 year old had to say about this. I look him in the eye, look away, look again, smile, and tell him that I usually work nights, and that maybe I'd see him there again sometime.