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June 24, 2000 |
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Pam and I woke up a little earlier today. I had a
softball game, and we would have to be across the lake by 12:30pm.
Normally that doesn't seem like much of a hardship, but you haven't seen me
sleep. People occasionally make the smartass remark that they thought I
turned to dust in daylight. Normally, I wouldn't think that much about
getting to the Eastside. In Seattle's infinite wisdom, they had managed to
close down one of the bridges for yet another weekend. Why? Who knows,
under normal circumstances I wouldn't care, however, my girlfriend, Pam lives in Seattle.
That's really not so bad though, a detour to I-90 and grabbing a quick
lunch, which we decided would be at Subway. I like Subway; it has a fairly
good selection and the food is comparatively good for you. I'm sure you
have all seen the Billy Blanks commercials, although I knew about it long
before Tae Bo. I also have this habit of collecting Subway stamps. I
think it stemmed from having collected them for other friends for so long,
and because I come in consistently on Tuesday nights, which is double
stamp day. Collecting the stamps certainly seems sillier when I take
into account that I normally tip the guy who makes the sub.
Lunch at Subway was uneventful, we sat in the booth near the door, there
was one man taking a survey for the restaurant who asked us a number of
questions. He seemed generally disinterested in his work, although he
seemed to be trying, at least. Oh, and there was also the incident with
the toxic bathroom. Well, at least Pam's account of
the seemingly toxic fumes from the women's bathroom.
We managed to arrive around five minutes after our scheduled time to meet. We still had plenty of time to practice and warm up. I was tossing the ball with Karl, who seemed to be hurling the ball with some distinct force. Not that I'm complaining, you understand, except for the one time which I missed the ball and it hit me squarely on the leg, my left calf to be precise. I know that it will turn into a nice bruise. What a terrific way to start the day.
This is a bit of a strange game. The game is played from dawn to dusk, presumably on one of the longest Saturdays of the year. It is a benefit that my company does with a charity. There isn't anyone who plays that duration, but teams sign up for time slots to play either of the two teams (either the red or the blue team). We're playing the red team from 1pm to 2:30pm.
I was to be starting as catcher. Initially, I though it might've been a drag, but I like the idea of being involved with every play. We continued to get ready while the 1pm start time creeped closer. More and more people started showing up and soon everyone was accounted for. My friends Dave and Jim were the captains of the team. I took a quick look at the line up card. Hmm… I was batting cleanup? Dave, are you sure you got the right person?
We were playing defense first, so I took the field behind the plate. Our pitcher was Donna, who I only met once before in practice. Not that there's that much to catching in slow pitch softball. It's not like I'm calling the game. I don't have catcher's gear, also known as the tools of ignorance. I don't even have a helmet, which made me a little concerned about the hitters' backswing. I wasn't that worried though. We got clobbered the first half inning; they batted around. I had a chance for a putout at the plate too, but missed the ball. Drat!
Our half of the inning was miserable. I got to bat but grounded into a fielders choice, still I got a chance to run the bases. We didn't score. Bummer.
I think I got hits for the remainder of the game. Note that I'm using the term "hit" loosely, since we don't distinguish between hits and errors.
At one time, I was the runner on first, after one of these hits, and Jim happens to hit the ball to fairly deep right field. Now the correct play is to wait until you know that the ball is going to drop, unless you want to risk the chance of being double off first base. This is precisely what I did. Meanwhile, Jim was running full steam towards first, which is what he should do.
The ball did drop.Now that the ball had dropped I ran quickly towards second, I looked towards the third base coach and found that I was being waved home. [Cool, I'll get to score!] I heard the defense screaming behind me, "Throw it home!"
Terrific.
I slide into home plate just ahead of the ball, I tap home plate with my hand. [Safe!] It is then that I saw Jim's foot reach just beyond my hand to step on home plate. He too was safe.
Ironically, Jim and I had another similar episode with him hitting a fly ball, but this time the play at the plate was not even close.
There was one scary moment while we were playing defense when there was a popup in the infield, one that was dropping quickly… right between our shortstop and third baseman. They were both running for the ball full tilt, and they met in the infield… full tilt. They both seemed okay, but at least one of them had to sit out the inning.
By the time we ended our stint in the field we had a 90 to 83 lead. Woo Hoo!
Pam and I drove to the convenience store to get a quick drink and then we headed back to her place. She was still looking for apartments, and one of the apartment complexes she was interested in had a rental that would be vacant soon. We stopped by for a quick look. The place was quite nice, not as roomy as some of the other that we had seen, but nice nevertheless. The apartment in and of itself wasn't that nice, but the complex had many little extras that made the entire package pretty attractive. We got some quick information and left shortly after.
We went back to her place, where we spent part of the afternoon sitting out in the sun and sipping champagne. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but I was already a bit grimy from the softball game. She said she enjoyed watching me playing, she said it made her… Uhmm, nevermind.
We had
debated going to a place on First Ave called Fandango for dinner. She had
asked during the week if I would be up to going. I agreed. She hadn't
made reservations however, and I figured that our chances of getting a
table were slim. Still I suggested that she call and try to make a
reservation, our chances would be much better than showing up and asking
for a table.
As it so happens, she was able to get a table for two. Perfect. The rest of the afternoon was spent at her place. Use your imagination.
As we neared the reservation time of 9pm, we were just about ready. We would be riding the bus, of course, there wasn't a real need for me to be braving the parking situation in downtown Seattle. I need to circle for parking about as much as I need a lobotomy. [Yeah, shut up… smartass!] Naturally, we missed the bus that would get us there by 9pm, the next bus would get us there by about 9:10pm. Let them wait.
The place was put together quite nicely, though it had a comparatively small bar area. The decor was contemporary, but with some classic touches of wood. The chair by the front of the place looked more like artwork than furtinure. They had a row of booths that ran along the length of the kitchen, which was wide open, presumably so the patrons could see the food being prepared. We were seated almost immediately.
The menu had the name of the chef. Okay folks, I know this is going to sound a little nuts, but as a general rule, I don't like these types of restaurants. To me restaurants are about one thing, getting food. To me, a memorable dining experience is a function of two things: Flavor (taste) and service. I'm not including presentation because I don't think it qualifies. I think it will be a pretty sad day when I can be entertained by the appearance of my dinner. If I want to be entertained, I'll see a movie. Even at $8, it is comparatively a bargain.
We watched the dessert chef go through his routine of piecing the desserts together, Pam kept referring to him as Dessert Boy. For a while he was meticulously scooping ice cream into balls and putting the balls aside in wax paper. I found it a bit disturbing the number of times the staff wiped the plates.
The fact that only one of the chefs among the half dozen or so in the kitchen had a soiled uniform. Okay, folks get real… this is a kitchen. If you're not getting dirty there's something obviously wrong. It's a bit like fixing your car and not getting dirty. I mean, yes… it can be done, but to me it seems as though you'd be spending too much time concentrating on not getting dirty rather than the task at hand.
As for the entire plate wiping phenomenon… As they prepare a particular dish, they get the specific clean plate, and wipe it. As they carefully arrange the food on the plate they again wipe any stray sauce that is not place perfectly right, then they put the order up for the server. If the head chef is there, she would similarly look at the plate to make sure that it looks fine and again wipes the plate. Finally, when the server picks up the dish, he or she may once more wipe the plate. Guys, the plate was fine when it came out of the dishwasher… Really!
There were a couple of times when there was the stray berry or maybe there was one particular something that wasn't quite the right shape, so they take something off the plate to make it look better. I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing that. Fine, you have to tell yourself that you need to make the plate look prettier, but please don't serve less food simply for appearance. People pay for the food, want to entertain them? Juggle!
Apart from the general ambiance of the place, I'll have to admit that the food was exceptional. For that, I will give them a thumbs up. I know I have issues with fancy places. I'll be the first one to admit that. I started dishwashing when I was twelve; I moved on to busing tables and eventually to waiting on tables until I was twenty-two. You know what I found from being in the service industry for ten years? People like to be pampered because they want to feel good. After a while, they feel they deserve it. People don't just like to feel good… they want to feel that somehow the fancy meal is going to make them better… better than the poor slob outside who can't afford this meal, and alas better than the slob wearing a tie who is serving it to you. You may disagree, but ask yourself why you like to dine out?
We rode the bus back to Pam's place. We were pretty tired. My calves were reminding me that I'm not conditioned to play catcher and to my dismay, they were very persistent. We went to sleep shortly after that.
June 24, 2000