So, then, I'll put in
"The Happiest Hour" for you all?
Our waiter shines
a confident, direct smile.
I shrug at my sister, a 'your call' look.
"You're paying; you decide!"
She gives a swift nod.
"Let's do this!"
Afternoon spring light cuts in
through the front windows.
Crystals sparkle and twinkle
as they twist and dance
from the linear chandeliers
along the ceiling.
I notice in my periphery
— with a raised eyebrow
and a heavy hint of validation —
that this establishment has
indeed found a secondary life
for petite ceramic yoghurt pots,
now in use as bespoke floral vases.
My husband, far away
would surely be chagrined
at his inability to see value
in leftover jars. Good.
Luckily for him,
it's Ladies' Night Out.
We have convened in Georgetown
at a Michelin-rated bistro.
It's a celebration of women,
of generations, of kinship.
Two sisters and our mom
— that is, whenever she gets here.
A bottle from Epernay is uncorked,
brut flows into appropriate stemware.
Bubbles rise cheerily
through gorgeous rose gold.
We wonder aloud if pinot noir skins,
used somewhere during production,
are the delightful reason behind
the Champagne's blush hue.
Outside, the sun casts a
deceptive, heatless light,
giving the impression if not
the reality of warmth.
A nippy spring breeze
flows through the front door,
chilling our exposed feet and necks.
Here's our Mom, at last!
We're here on invitation
from our youngest member.
My sister is celebrating her recent
promotion, sharing her joy with us.
We settle into cushioned seats to chat.
On cue, an embarrassment of riches
hits our epoxied cork table top
with a flourish.
In front of us, now:
a sculpture, a magnum opus.
French plentitude and restraint;
a masterclass in taut balance.
Black River Osetra
quivers in porcelain,
flanked by
traditional accoutrements:
Micro mince egg whites
and yolks, next to impossibly
nano-diced shallots —
as if woodland fairies had,
with Lilliputian knives,
comprised the kitchen brigade.
Another platter boasts
fine verdant herbs,
piped creme fraiche
and russet potato crisps.
Pineberry, arugula and pistachio
a spring symphony, I mean salad,
sidles closely to plates with
royally finished deviled eggs.
Everything tastes better,
looks better,
feels better
at happy hour.
We eat politely,
carefully, and
with self-aware discretion
as our conversation unfolds.
Our tacit mindset:
"take just enough."
We scoop small piles
of glistening golden black orbs
onto mother of pearl spoons
which we deposit with gentle rolls
onto our curated potato stacks.
My sister is now embroiled,
fully committed,
to her harrowing recap
— a truly engrossing tale.
Meanwhile, I attempt
an exercise in futility:
to discreetly lick stray
salined caviar spheres
from the edges of my lips.
(Mmm!)
All too soon, our tower nears,
with growing dread,
three-quarters finished.
A true shame!
Spoons slow, reticence grows.
No one wants to be remembered
as the imprudent one to take
The Last Bite.
Before we can express
our dismay, however,
our server shocks us
with a second tower.
"It's called 'The Happiest Hour'
for a reason!" she says,
her voice tinkling
with the self-delight
of spreading unexpected happiness.
"Cheers to abundance!"
We three ladies raise our glasses
to toast in gratitude as our
eyes rove over another feast.
While the magnolias sway outdoors
and the False Spring sun chills
brightly-lit sidewalks,
inside we warm with love and triumph.
