To be truthful, I had no intention of celebrating a year and a half with Ben for two reasons. For one, it seemed like a silly and staggered time to be romantic. For another, I had spent the past two weeks with nary a moment away from my research. For all the intensity of my well-guarded sentimental side, the research was the true driving source behind distraction. I interviewed subjects during coffee breaks, read academic journals during long drives with Ben, and even worked through our lovely beach weekend. The poor man has hardly eaten this week, no thanks to me.
To keep him from forgetting his love life entirely I promised that I would not do any work on Friday, which also happened to be our year and a half anniversary. I spent the entire week drafting and interviewing, classifying and arguing, cramming my hours with as much as possible so Friday could be spent study-free and guilt-free.
As the days went by I became more enamored with staring into the eyes of the mythical free evening. What would this beast look like, I wondered, and where is its home territory? Ben had been so long around a manic thesis nut that he was strapped for ideas as well; to be safe I made reservations at several romantic restaurants in both Eugene and Portland. In the end we took a spontaneous trip to Portland and ended up at the steps of Brasserie Montmartre, a restaurant of which I have been dying to patronize for months.
This is where my night begins, and Ben's ends. You see, Ben and I radically differ in our idea of a good night out. I love nothing more than an artful meal, an inventive cocktail or two, and a thick dose of dancing all in a gorgeous setting. Ben loves food and cocktails, but finds the dancing and the added fancy details to be all too unnecessary. He fretted about nice clothes (of which he has none), stared at the wine list as if illiterate, and wrinkled his nose at the sight "beurre rouge" or "cassoulet" without ever asking what they meant. I don't even want to mention his tantrum over suggesting that he try escargot. We skipped the appetizers to spare him more panic and picked beer over cocktails, though I was deeply enamored with a cherry Manhattan called the "Don Draper". He played it safe with the rack of lamb, while I chose the chicken chasseur.
Though Ben was out of his element, he was dear company. He was able to pick out certain French words as our darling, fluent waitress and I conversed. Come to think of it, I think he picked out "cheese" and "Don Draper". While his rack of lamb was more architectural than my (outright sexy) chicken chasseur, he ate it like a good sport and discovered that he enjoys parsnip purée. He was also not the weakest link as far as dress was concerned; a man at our adjacent table was in plaid shorts and sandals. That this man found it appropriate to wear plaid shorts to a restaurant that offers port-soaked currants overwhelms me with both laughter and migraines.
The night was a slow-t0-start success. Though Ben was frightened at first, he got through it. We were able to enjoy a cool, cuddly night together to celebrate that we love each other. We also managed some time with our dear friends Ben and Alicia, whose wedding I am catering next month. What's most important to me, I was able to plunge into a nice night without fretting about my gallant graduate project. I have looked the mythical free evening in the eye, and I liked it.
Mark my words, though: before we hit two years, Ben will eat escargot.
No comments:
Post a Comment