“I’m a Village Person. Is that what you’re saying, George?”
George laughed loud. “Well, since you brought it up... you are somewhat of an amalgamation of conflicting gay stereotypes.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means a collection of different types of gay men—all smashed together in one.”
“Is it wrong to be turned on by having you explain things to me?”
“You’re also, at times, wildly extroverted—spouting intimacies in public with no filter. Yet, other times—alone with me especially—you’re introverted, sometimes crippled with insecurity.”
“I don’t want to lose you, George. Thesethingsyou see in me, they’ve scared others away.”
“They’re not going to scare me away.”
“You promise?”
“I do,” George said, giving him a brief kiss. “And now I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“Deconstructing you. It’s a habit I have with dishes I’m unfamiliar with. I identify the components—the ingredients—to figure out exactly what it is I’m eating.”
“Do you like my ingredients, George?”
“I do. You’re complex—in agoodway—spontaneous, bold, and surprising with just the right amount of spice. There’s always underlying heat, and the sweet... Charm City Cakes has nothing on you.”
Mikey laughed. “That’s in Baltimore.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Wow. Nobody’s ever described me as a meal before.”
“That’s because you’re more than a meal, Mikey. You’re a buffet.”
Chapter 20
David’s
Dupont Circle
I’m pleased to announce that Washington, DC, has a new family member. David’s restaurant is now open for business and it’s such a treat that I cannot keep it a secret (though I’m tempted, believe me). Be it special occasions, drop-in dining, lunch, or brunch—David’s is a casual cuisine chameleon. Many restaurants strive for a similar paradigm and fail. Simply put, Chef George Patras and his humble crew have found the balance. The cooking is a soulful Mediterranean blend of Italian and Greek—many of the ingredients local and seasonal. Everything—I meaneverything—gets meticulous attention and house-made affection: pickles, condiments, bread, salad dressings, desserts, and cocktails (my Manhattan was divine—Woodford Reserve bourbon, imported Greek vermouth and Amarena cherries!). David's brilliantly blends fine dining with a family atmosphere. All are welcome. Reservations recommended. (1510 Connecticut Ave. NW, Washington, DC; 202-555-0169;www.davidskouzina.com)—Andrew Mulligan
* * *
The review came out two days before the grand opening and the reservations came pouring in. Zac hired additional servers, a fantastic pastry chef—Aria—and a sweet, young, and talented bartender named Ricky. With Mikey’s additional help that week, he and George trained them all to standard with the luxury of more time, less stress, and added focus.
Opening night was everything George could have hoped for. The front door to David’s may as well have been revolving. People began arriving as early as five and continued steadily through the night. No one was turned away. If there was a wait, there was seating with Ricky at the bar. Those with reservations were accommodated quickly, and those without either waited or received a voucher for a discounted meal in the future. There were no disappointments and no complaints—a rarity in the restaurant world, especially for a debut.
Mikey sang multiple selections twice—once for the early crowd and again for late diners—romantic songs he made in collaboration with Gianni on the accordion. He sang softly without a microphone, so as not to overwhelm or intrude. The minute George heard, he was out of the kitchen and watching with pure adoration and affection. Mikey—his Mikey—had a gorgeous tenor’s voice, and when he hit the big notes, George would prickle with gooseflesh and his eyes would fill. Something about the confidence Mikey brought in combination with the emotion of the song carried George to a different plane—almost primal. He was compelled to witness it, like wolves baying at the moon.
After his second round, the restaurant erupted with applause, and Mikey attempted to subdue the claps with a gentle wave. But then George was there, surprising him with a bouquet of roses, and people began standing, shoutingbravo, encore. George held up Mikey’s hand in his as if he were a prizefighter, and the applause surged. Mikey plucked a few of the roses from the bouquet and handed them to Gianni with a nod of thanks before they began another number.
The lunches were great, too; locals were curious and the tourists abundant. Quickly, George knew he had something special on his hands and that he owed a great debt to Andrew and Aaron for the wonderful review as well as Jack and Demarco for inviting them. He asked Aria to whip up two dozen chocolate cannoli and had them specially delivered to both couple’s residences, along with a card signed by him and the entire staff, expressing their gratitude.
The following week, he was ready for a day off and it came with Thanksgiving. Not only was it a time for the staff to recuperate from a full week of opening momentum, but also a brief respite for George—the opportunity to plan for the weekend and to meet Mikey’s family.
Zac and Ginger bowed out politely, having made plans with her parents, but Zac had left him a refrigerated batch of dough for his amazing anise rolls to serve. Aria, equally grateful for the day off, made an extra tiramisu so that dessert was also done. George, wanting to spend as much time with Mikey and his guests as possibleandhave a lunch special the following day, killed two birds with one stone by making an enormous amount of pastitsio. This Greek variation on lasagna was hardy, easy to prepare in advance, and would hopefully satisfy his Italian guests.
