Years of curiosity led me to finally open up the Ian James Savings and Loan last Friday, displacing much of my meager funds to a little French joint called the Refectory.
A vested interest in playacting a night’s worth of high society and holding true to a long overdue promise, I prepared to go for the glory and get my seven-course meal on.
Part of the Bethel Road restaurant’s four star aura comes from the little things one might notice, namely one’s own hand in front of one’s face. It’s dark.
Dark worked, though, and fit for dining in what might as well be a giant wine cellar.
I felt I was ready for this. A pair of oil black “Italian-style” leather shoes on the feet, black sportcoat on the back. New “slacks” were on the to-purchase list but in the end, I rationalized my ability to rock a pair of jeans and save the pants money for that all important bottle of wine.
When out of one’s element, I find eavesdropping can be a helpful way to gauge the situation. A May-December couple behind us seemed to be having a nice reserved chat until the young woman’s cell phone began ringing.
“Turn that off! Turn that thing off, now!” the man said. “Why do you have that thing on in here, what are you thinking?” The scolded woman said nothing as she wrestled the phone out of her purse and the dim quiet returned.
“Would you like begin the evening with an aperitif?” the waiter said.
I did and so did my female friend. I ordered one for us; roasted goat cheese. Aperitif is not an appetizer, though; hor d’oeurve is, and the waiter offered us a questioning expression when we ordered this way the goat cheese as our aperitif. He knew.
In addition, my date used the wrong knife to spread butter upon bread. Realizing the fatal error she reacted quickly, wiping the soiled knife clean against the table cloth. She rested it back against the other unused silverware while I kept watch to make sure no one saw.
The Refectory and its 700 plus brand wine stock beckoned toward my honey and I. A $24 bottle of red wine – second cheapest – is an apparent popular desire as the restaurant was fresh out. A $60 bottle was offered by our mild, tuxedo clad garcon instead. He wanted to make us happy.
“I suggest you take this offer sir,” the waiter said.
“Yes, yes I think I will,” I responded. And not only responded, but slid. Slid right into a reserved societal personality. One that speaks with quiet articulation, maintains an austere manner and knods knowingly at the waitstaff’s every remark. All I needed was a Benson and Hedges in a holder, a Rolex on the wrist, and a new pair of slacks with real “Italian-style” loafers to boot.
But Eric the waiter had us pinned for what we were – a pair of Bourgeois cats masquerading as aristocrats. I’m sure it was endearing, though.
The wine was wheeled out on a rectangular cart. Before beginning the bottle opening procedures, a stubby candle was lit and the bottle of California red was passed for my inspection.
“Mmmm, yes very nice,” I said.
The fake persona felt great. We all had fun. The wine went down smooth and the bread came rationed one piece per person per go-round. I didn’t understand this, but I pretended to.
My date appreciated this and I think we even kept our forks when we were suppossed to.
Ian James is a senior in journalism and The Lantern arts editor. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].
