I never imagined that a little French Vietnamese storefront restaurant could make me feel like a member of the British aristocracy. I’ve always wanted to be waited on like one of the upstairs crowd on Upstairs Downstairs. I wouldn’t even mind being a royal. So what if Charles is a bit of a twit? I’ve put up with plenty of twits in my time, and it would have been a lot more pleasant with Di’s clothes allowance.
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It isn’t that I care so much what’s being said at my own table, although unlike my married friends I don’t find it excruciatingly boring, but that I’m afraid I’ll miss something at the next table. I’ll never forget the time I sat near a man who was having lunch with his mistress when his wife walked in and confronted them. Both women started screaming at the man. He finally walked out and they ended up eating together. I’ve always wondered which one of them picked up the check.
Conversation at Le Bistro was nothing to write home about but the food, or most of it anyway, was just plain sensational. Although a recalcitrant Laney refused to go with me because she thought it would be too spicy, most of the dishes were fairly mild. The waitress offered to have the chef make them spicier if we wanted, and there was also a bowl of hot sauce on the table. At any rate, Laney could have ordered from the American menu section, which features steaks, fish, and Laney’s favorite, broiled filet of chicken breast ($8.95).
Le Bistro’s owner, Julie Mai, is one of its main attractions. She pitches right in, checking to see that the service is all it should be, explaining the menu to neophytes, and encouraging customers to special-order. Her only concession to the inherent sloppiness of her native cuisine was a black leather skirt. Black leather can survive anything; ask the Hell’s Angels. General conversation revealed that she and I shared the same hairdresser. In fact, she said that back when he was sick and had refused to cut my hair, he had managed to cut hers. (Later I asked him about it and he said she’d brought dinner over. Easy for her, she owns a restaurant. I’d had to whip up a bread pudding blinded by bangs a sheep dog couldn’t see through.)
