Chez Shea

August 14, 2008
Seattle

Dear Blog,

Yesterday Michelle and I rode a shimmering green bus to "The City" where Michelle had been threatening to do some "serious shopping." Perched upon the green vinyl of the bus seat, Michelle, through subtle allegory, helped me understand that to her, today, I could only be a sick horse, possibly even a dead one. She gravely warned that she would not abide the burden. So when we spilled out of the bus into the station, she gave me a slug on the shoulder and a kiss on the face, then flew away, a pecuniary pollinator of Commerce's Westlake blooms, and a cute one.

I, lame stud, wandered slowly but directly to Barnes and Noble. I selected a book of Latin roots, sat in a corner and looked down at the pages expecting boredom. I looked back up with the expectation met.
Then I looked at a Russian couple looking at an English-Russian dictionary.
Then I looked over the shoulder of a guy studying rational expressions.
Then I looked at a book describing how to tie fantastically complicated knots.
Then I looked at the photo of the author on the back cover.
Then I wondered about the knot he was calling his face, and why he didn't pull it a little tighter.
Then I left Barnes and Nobel.

I walked to the Seattle Public Library, looked at a few books written in Finnish, decided it will always be a cognate language of Gibberish, then left.

Back at Barnes and Noble, a Michelle stitched together from smiles and spare princesses appeared on the most majestic of modernity's cascades, the escalator, seeming to have tamed a crashing waterfall of stairs. What can't she do? I wondered. She held three large plastic bags and a stack of fashion magazines. With a flip of her hand and a bounce in her step, she declared her shopping excursion a success, and claimed the coffee owed her by her manservant. Earlier that day he had argued with the passionate conviction of the utterly uniformed that it was the Ancient Greeks who had first included a senate in their government. Michelle claimed it was the Romans. The argument escalated into a foolish wager, and he found himself quite the fool. Young readers, pay attention, for I was that fool.

I languidly stirred aspartame or saccharine into our Americanos, quietly curious about the Persian man next to me furiously stirring sugar into his caramel machiato. "Sweet enough to kill a humingbird" I thought, and then never thought I would think of it again.

At seven o'clock we decided to dress for the evening. The bathroom floor was sticky and there were...things...on the surfaces. Only a thin partition separated me from a man malodorously trumpeting his egesta. It was the Macy's men's room, and it was nicer than I had expected. I pulled some crumpled garments from my backpack and goaled to make the switch without touching anything. Strange being on the defensive from the static inanimates of a bathroom. Mais c'est la guerre. I entered the bathroom a cool worm in shirtsleeves and short pants. I emerged cacooned in finery, overdressed for the weather and part of town. Two stories above me a lovely young lady was also changing for the evening, but in much more elegant surroundings. The Macy's Women's Lounge--not just a room, but a lounge--is clean and pink, comfortably furnished, couched, mirrored, stalls like toileted dressing rooms. Macy's, your gender preference is clear.

Michelle came out looking expensive. Black boots, black tights, shimmering green dress tied up in a sexy black trench. I escorted this lady of the evening to First and Pike, to Chez Shea, to a dinner unjustifiably expensive but indescribably amazing.

The restaurant is small, about 10 tables. Dimly lit, quiet, it overlooks Pikes Place Market and has a view of the Olympic Mountains. And 20 minutes before sunset splashed the clouds bloody red, you can take my word that there was more than one hopeful man ordering his date another drink.

I started with a glass of wine, which was served with a drowned fly. Michelle chose the limonada, ungarnished. A crusty bread was plated, buttered, devoured, delicious. The waitress came and stood beside me.

Accented:

W: Have you decided?
J: Yes. For the first course I will have the Amberjack Ceviche,

-Here classlessly throwing my thumb in Michelle's direction-

J: and she will have the Organic Spring Greens.
W: Ok.
J: For the second course I will have the Corn Soup and she will have the Pate. For the entrée we will both have the seasonal vegetable crepe.
W: Very good.

For the benefit of culinary dullards like myself, ceviche (unbeknownst to this vegetarian at the time) is a citrusy seafood salad. And pate was this particular menu's American bastardization of Pâté, a French amalgamation of minced meat, animal fat, and herbs. Discarding my meatless convictions with unexpected alacrity, I ate both. When in Rome, I said several times aloud, when in Rome. Flavor-wise, they were both exceedingly delicious. Everything was. Surely when time pulls the last threads of youth from my face and senility claims my most enduring memories, the last to be forgotten will be the taste of the lemon crème brûlée, and the retinal engraving of the beautiful blond girl in shades of green, smiling in the low light at Chez Shea.

We ate for two hours and have the bill to prove it.

Blog,

Josh

PS: Mike and Kindra--This was incredible. Thank you!