Poker Princess Folds, Pleads Guilty In Manhattan Federal Court.
The door swung open, and Charlie walked in with a bottle of prosecco and two Solo cups.
“I got a Google Alert that you finally pleaded guilty today.”
I grinned. “Hilarious.”
“How does it feel?” he asked as he poured prosecco into both cups.
“That literally just happened thirty minutes ago,” I said, pointing to the screenshot of my indicted alter ego.
“An attractive woman walking proudly out of court after pleading guilty for running poker games? With those sunglasses? On your behalf, I’m offended it took them half an hour.”
“Eddie planned that to a T. I didn’t think it would work until I almost couldn’t see from all the flashes.”
“Celebratory basement sushi?”
“Can I ask all the dumb questions I want to about my date tomorrow?”
“What date?”
I shot him a look. “With the waiter?”
“That’s tomorrow? I thought it already happened.”
I put my hands on my hips. “And you never thought to ask how it went?”
He laughed. “Sorry. Now I remember.”
“And you’re taking Margaret to the concert in Brooklyn tomorrow.Iremembered.”
“Uh-huh. I’m going to need a few sips of Sapporo before I can answer your date questions, though.”
“Deal.”
Charlie’s number-one piece of dating advice wasdon’t overthink it.
On Thursday, determined to project a casual attitude, I went straight from the office to the Union Square wine bar where Alex had suggested we meet. He’d arrived early and already selected our first wine-tasting flight, which included a Pinotage from South Africa, a Shiraz from New Zealand, and a Tuscan Chianti.
“The sommelier here is off his rocker. He puts together these tastings that make absolutely no sense, but somehow you learn the craziest things, and by the end of the flight, it starts to come together.”
I looked down skeptically at the pairing sheet. “Sounds like that’s the wine doing its job, but I’ll take your word for it. Which one do I start with?”
Alex knew a lot more about wine than me. He was a career waiter who had worked at some of Manhattan’s finest restaurants. He’d trained at Le Bernardin, spent four years at Gramercy Tavern, and then did a brief stint at Momofuku. He was an effortless conversationalist who did most of the talking, but not in a way that I found displeasing. His day-to-day was filled with high-end foodies, angry chefs, and constant drama. As soon as he finished a story, I hoped he would start another.
“You should pitch a TV show about the gritty world of New York fine dining,” I said, making a note that I liked the last wine best.
“If it sells, can you be my entertainment lawyer?”
“Good question. Do I get a credit on the show for convincing you to pitch the idea?”
He laughed good-naturedly.
We each ordered a glass of Primitivo from the flight and agreed to share a few appetizers. I was starving and feeling the wine.
Even though he knew nothing about working in a law firm, he seemed fascinated by my job. He wished restaurant gigs were a little more stable. He wanted to know what drew me to entertainment law. I told him about my love for independent film.Mementowas his favorite movie.
At a certain point midway through a story about a Michelin-starred French restaurant on the Upper East Side, I realized it didn’t even feel like we were on a date. It felt easy. He asked good questions and had good stories. I found myself wondering if Charlie would think he was pretentious about food and wine.
