We came for dinner, we showed up early to get a drink at the bar, which was already besieged by other early arrivals waiting for tables. We could tell the bartenders were feeling weedy, one was shaking and stirring like mad, as tickets lined up next to him and the other dodged and weaved around taking and delivering orders. The dining room was full and some tables were running late, but soon enough we got our spot at the communal table, which started out nicely enough. The dining room cleared, the new tables sat, the lights were already low and multitudes of candles were lit. We all calmed down and the food began to arrive. And so too, did the late night crowd...
Within about an hour we realized that when they call it communal, they don't just mean other people sitting at the table with you, but the entire bar and restaurant staff. We were sat between the doors to the waitstaff area and the bar, which turns into a thoroughfare during dinner, so much so that if I didn't know better, I'd imagine that was how their signature drink was named, because knocking back a few of those is the only way to soothe the constant anxiety and fear of being placed literally in the restaurant highway as giant trays of food and drinks are swung over your head and you can hear the growing roar of the crowd at the bar behind that also lurks just behind your back as you are trying to eat a five hundred dollar meal, and you are trying not to worry for the giant vase on the corner of the bar that happens to also be just over head AND within elbows reach of the obviously drunk barflies that keep backing into your chair, only repositioning themselves briefly when the waitstaff beat them back like Thompson with his swatter in bat country, all the while attempting to hear the quiet voice of your lovely date who is peering intermittently over your shoulder in bewilderment at the scene as she tries not to laugh, or cry, or both.
At one point, our dinner was so hectic that I attempted to ply her with a bottle of the best red wine, calling the sommelier over for advice. He seemed stressed, having already run in circles a few times, we observed. He was nice enough, disappearing for a while and then, just as I was giving up hope, returned with the best wine I've had in. A long time, but apologizing oddly for not having the right glasses. He seemed awfully stressed out, along with the poor bartenders who it seemed never got a break. At one point, my date told me the music had quieted and so too the crowd, and just then she could hear someone roar "hands!" several times from the back and every single server turned and shuffled into the back, some looking as terrified as my date was, including the sommelier, who quickly put his bottle down, excused himself and seemed to run. She could also hear some kind of argument over the breaking of wine glasses, thus my joke about the sommelier and the wallop.
There are other things that made it more like a circus than anything, the constant silverware change, the brief but angry Italian argument coming from the back, the constantly circling of staff, and someone singing along with an irish jig at the end...
By dessert we were stuffed with good food but quite exhausted trying to keep up. We are grateful for the entertainment, disappointed by the lack of trapeze show.
But we expected less of a loud party and more of a quiet, intimate atmosphere. The staff seemed too stressed and there were way too many of them. The environment was loud and frightening.
We signed our tab and stepped outside, the fresh Maine air slapped us in the faces, awakening us from a strange trance, and now looking back at my experience, it's like when Thompson awakes in that trashed hotel, a microphone taped to his face, lizard tail on his rear, wondering what happened with only brief flashes of memories to piece it all together. read more