Uva Enoteca: A small, dim, warm wine bar within walking distance of my house, a punctuation point of delicacy in my otherwise rough and tumble neighborhood. Uva offers a lovely list of Italian wines – anything the friendly wait staff has ever recommended has been entirely consumable – and a tidy selection of items that will please your palette (they also tend to drain your wallet more than they fill your belly…but at least it’s enjoyable). And I paid Uva and its wines and snacks a visit last night.
Let me backtrack here to explain how I ended up at Uva. On Friday, I had the pleasure (in some form or another) of meeting a Spanish gentleman. We’ll call him Jon, because that it is his name. Jon: Spanish, not tremendously handsome, but off the charts on the charm scale. I came to speak with him as he was blocking the entrance to a booth that held my purse, which I had gone to retrieve. I politely asked him to step aside; he agreed, under the condition that I would, in return, select one of three options. I selected Option 1: a kiss on either cheek for Jon, and from there, we had several cocktails too many together. He captured my phone number by the night’s end, and he texted me not once but twice on Sunday morning asking if I’d fancy a date. He really likes the word fancy.
I suggested Tues night, and Uva as the destination. As we waited for our table, I sat perched on a stool at the bar while he did something that resembled pacing in place around my chair. Nervous energy?
The first topic of conversation involved him remarking something about living with his parents when he’s back in Spain, which no matter how charming it sounds in an accent is still a red flag. But I shrugged it off to cultural discrepancies. He mentioned a brother – and when prompted he indicated that the brother was older – 27. Which clearly begged the follow-up question of Jon’s age. 23. 23. 23. Pacing explained.
Do not roll your eyes here and mutter that age does not matter, because when I’m 30 and you’re 23, it in fact does matter. And I found this all out before we’d even sat down. I grew more hopeful when he seemed knowledgeable on wines and made appropriately observant facial expressions and gestures when tasting the bottle of red (delicious, soft-bodied, intensely fruit-forward Italian wine with a name that I regrettably forget).
He also let me select the few small bites that we ordered without opposition: the country-style pate (spiked with bits of mushroom – nice, firm, varied texture, but lacking in flavor), chicken terrine (delicious – soft, creamy bits interrupted by small segments of richly smoked meat and nuggets of crisp asparagus), and mushrooms (chanterelles served cold, sprinkled through with fresh herbs and just perfect).
Our conversation was enjoyable enough but reflecting, I think it was more flash than substance. It consisted mostly of flirtatious banter spiked with small exchanges of typical first-date information. He was Western European male to a t in his mannerisms, with extended bouts of flattery and a constant desire for tactile connection. Overall, it was a fairly unremarkable date.
And then the bill came. It sat there for a moment until I flipped it over to doodle some things on the back in an effort to illustrate a conversation we were having about punctuation (British v. American English…), and when we flipped it back over, he asked, “do you have cash or a credit card?”
Which should obviously be irrelevant as I should never be putting either in on a first date. I’m by no means an advocate of the male always paying, but on a first date, it is a requirement. I will always remember a date I went on w/ a certain Steve C in high school. We split that bill. That was our only date.
And so it goes: Jon ended his chances for date #2 right then and there. To boot, it was clear that Jon thought there was a possibility that I’d end the night by accompanying him back to what I can only interpret as a boarding house for foreign kids (yes, because, he’s 23). That is funny on multiple levels, but most of all because it was so far from actually happening.
Well, c’est la vie. Or, however you say that in Spanish. I’m now left to figure out how to respond to the text message that I literally just received while typing this entry. I think I will select the no response avenue but am open to any suggestions.
