Living Well

2007.09.11   prev     next

One sip and I knew — this is how a wine is supposed to taste. Simple, strong, the flavor of grapes only much more potent. Not fruity, but somehow maintaining the essence of the fruit from which it was made. Not “complex,” just bold and perfect, yet somehow relaxed. Zero aftertaste, just the lingering taste of the wine itself. I was already on the verge of seizing the bottle from the middle of the table to memorize the path back to this beverage when, recalling Paul Giamatti in Sideways, I stuck my nose in the glass, closed my eyes, and sniffed. Instantly I was teleported back five years to a winery we visited in Napa Valley. It had a large-cabinet-sized door you could open and see down into the vast aging room filled with oak barrels of vino-in-progress. The aroma of wine and wood was incredibly delicious, sensuous, and overpowering. Now here was that same smell coming from my glass. I picked up the bottle and looked at the label. Bramble Bump Red, 2005, Columbia Valley, jmcellars.com — this I must remember. My wife Shawn, and Gabriel’s wife Katheryn had ordered this exquisite creation, but were more than happy to share, so I set my Guiness Stout aside and forgot about it until later when the wine ran out. It was just the beginning of the perfect meal, which was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Having just flown in the previous night from Ohio to our hosts’ lovely house in the hills above Seattle, I felt I had to start the day with an invigorating, half-hour run. It was an unusually sunny weekend in coastal Washington. The beautiful weather, in addition to the gentle hills surrounded by mountains, and the towering, omnipresent evergreens made the whole world feel like one big park, created for me to roam. I jogged passed a school with a wooden sign, “Issaquah High” and a standard, black-on-white, changeable marquee below it that read, “Welcome back!” I smiled. Though I’d never been to this city before, it felt like I, personally, was being welcomed back to a place I always belonged.

Back to eating, drinking, and being merry at the Coho Café, a stone’s throw from Lake Sammamish. “I’ll have the sea bass, with the banana pineapple salsa,” I told our bright, witty server Sarah. Shawn selected the cod, Katheryn the salmon, and Gabriel the chicken. The food arrived promptly, and we each shared a bit with each other — and to our delight found every one to be fantastic almost beyond words. As evening turned into night, and a fire cheerfully danced in the stone hearth right next to our outdoor table, the conversation spanned the gamut of our lives and experiences, while we periodically oohed and aahed over the quality of the meal. (Katheryn and Gabriel told us that the food was never this good before, but the place has recently changed hands, so that must have made the difference.)

Then came dessert. Shawn and I stuck with coffee (excellent) while Gabriel and Katheryn chose the coconut cream pie and the almond joy sundae. Luckily for me and my better half, they shared a couple bites each with us. The desserts were huge, visually sumptuous, and rich almost to a fault (almost!).

Credit Where Credit Is Due

The check came, and we agreed to split it down the middle. I found our total remarkably low, but then remembered that one of our meals was being picked up by an invisible, fifth person at our table, who never ate a bite. And who was this generous, absentee member of our party? Why, none other than Bill Gates. As Gabriel had explained to me earlier in the meal, if you work for Microsoft (as he does), you get — among many other outstanding perks — two-for-one entrées at Coho, for which presumably the restaurant is compensated by Bill’s company. It’s hard to argue with freebies like that. At my employer (a very large, nationally advertised business), as I had informed Gabriel during that phase of our dinner conversation, we don’t even have a meager kitcheonette. If you want to wash out a glass, you have to do it in the bathroom. There’s a small, grungy, old microwave oven hidden in a narrow space between two cubicles, behind a support column, and the employees who work near it will tell you to go ahead and use it, but please don’t talk freely about its presence. Cans of soda cost 70¢ each, and my flavor of choice is often sold out. Gabriel couldn’t even list all the slick extras, both in and out of the office, he enjoys from his job. Thanks, Gabriel, Katheryn, and Bill, for sharing the wealth. I don’t think Shawn and I could have enjoyed it more.

Sarah had given us equal checks to pay, but through some technical glitch, mine already had a tip entered at 3¢. Gabriel suggested that I pay my tip to him, and he would add it into his tip. But with food and service this good, enjoyed this much, with company this delightful, and partially funded by someone this famous — I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I might go down in history as the world’s worst tipper. I told Sarah I hated to trouble her, but she needed to go back and reopen the check so I could tip properly. She understood, and tip properly we did.

Would the evening have been complete if we hadn’t played several games of pool at the H&H Saloon? And if Gabriel and I left early to walk home and relieve the sitter, while our wives shot stick until two with local studs ten years our juniors, who hit on them (to their delight) — would we be angered, or take it as a high compliment? The latter, I’m quite sure.