(Big Jim the phlegmatic Willow bartender whipped these fish tacos up personally. Photo Socotra.)
My associate was beaten up from proposal work. The crazy gyrations of the Government this year- continuing resolutions, course changes and policy uncertainty- have made this a weird season. There are supposed to be Task Orders coming out this week, first in a while, and the big re-compete of the huge Indefinite Delivery/Indefinite Quantity (ID/IQ) contract I pretend to manage for the company is looming.
We are trying to get ready as best we can. I had just got off a call in which we reviewed forty-five resumes for something or other, and my brain was mush. I walked from the office and through the alley to take my chances crossing Fairfax Drive.
There is a crosswalk in front of The Madison, where my pal Mac resides. It is always a crap-shoot to get across. The County is on some campaign to calm the traffic and remind the drivers that pedestrians have the right-of-way. Accordingly, some hardy people have taken to simply walking out into traffic, with the assumption that the type-A drivers will halt for them.
I try to hedge my bets. People around here are nuts, as those of you outside the Beltway may have observed of late.
I got lucky and was not plastered on a windshield as I crossed the broad boulevard, and stubbed out my cigarette in the trashcan outside the rails of the patio seating area. Elisabeth-with-an-S was setting up the tables and gave a low whistle. I looked up and saw her in her black work ensemble, her chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. She is a striking woman, and I told her so.
“How’s the day going?” she asked.
“Dunno. Have had my head in a technical meeting for the last two hours. Last I heard, London was on fire and the market was down 600 points. That makes a thousand in two days of trading. It hasn’t been this bad since Black Monday in 2008, the very day I had to give the ex a hundred grand.”
“Ouch. But of course, I am not in the market,” she said. “And it is probably a good thing, all things considered.”
“Yeah. I have avoided looking. You haven’t lost the money until you sell, so I am hoping things settle out eventually. Might be a good time to start thinking about buying. My Day-trader pal recommends Apple and Google as good hedge buys.”
“You would have to have some money to do that, Vic,” she said, brushing her bangs back over her ears. “And while I have hope, I am gong to just have to ride this one out.”
“We all will,” I said. “I think I need a drink, a food swim and let tomorrow take care of itself.”
“I know where you can find one. I have a double shift today, and the wait staff is just coming on and they want me to set up the patio.”
“Ingrates,” I said. “There are streets named for them all over the country: ‘One Way.’
“See you inside,” she said. I waved and strolled back to the gate, across the brick to the stairs and into the cool darkness of the Willow bar.
Old Jim is back from teaching an edition of his writing seminars for government workers, and anchored the Amen Corner. He looked up at me as I slid onto the stool next to him.
“Fuck you, Vic.”
“Great to see you, too, Jim.”
Jon-no-H was there with the Lovely Bea further down toward the window. Jon’s shirt collar was open and he had no tie.
“Still at your leisure?” I asked.
“Absolutely. We just got back from New York.”
“City or upstate?” I asked.
“Finger Lakes, east of Syracuse,” Jon replied. “We went to my family’s big summer picnic.”
“Did you survive, Bea?” I asked.
“They were very nice,” she said with a smile that exposed her brilliant white teeth against her rich café au lait skin.
I looked over at Jim and said, sotto vocc, “They are taking this relationship to the next level.”
Jim grimaced. “Relationships have a way of doing that,” he said and rapped the bar with the head of his cane. It is shaped in the form of a bulldog, which his wife Mary the former chanteuse claims looks just like him.
Our young associate appeared as Jon and Bea finished their drinks and made preparations to go to dinner. “I need something brown,” she declared.
Jim suggested an Old Fashioned, which he made so strong that she spluttered.
“I can’t drink this,” she said. “What is in it?”
“Supposed to be Rye whiskey,” said Jim, drawing on his time behind the bar. Big Jim fixed he problem by adding some simple syrup with ginger.
We commiserated about the Fall of the West for a while, but she was hungry and looked at the Neighborhood Bar Menu. One thing about financial melt-downs is that they can stimulate the appetite. She settled on the fish tacos, and Big Jim vanished to make it happen.
“We used to get those in San Diego,” I said. “Delicious.” I stuck to my white wine, an impertinent vintage called Eight Legs Semillon-Chardonnay from 2010. I find the blend goes together well- the Aussies do that well. I sipped the bright, pure citrus taste of the Chardonnay, and enjoyed the way it cascaded over the palate, smoothed by the creamy, waxy character of Semillon. “You know,” I said, gesturing with my tulip glass, “This would go well with the fish.”
“I think I will have a beer after this,” said our associate. Big Jim appeared with a suspiciously large order of the tacos. “OMG! That looks fantastic!”
Big Jim smiled. “Did it myself,” he said, flashing his two fingers sideways. “Thinly sliced red onion, red wine vinegar, ancho chile powder. Fresh oregano, ground cumin fresh cilantro leaves, jalapeno peppers stuffed with cod.
“Not bad,” I said.
“Just because the world is going to hell doesn’t mean you can’t have a decent snack at the Willow.”
“Damn straight,” I agreed.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com