The other night my wife and I went out for dinner. Not that earth shattering by any means, but we did manage to ditch the boys and we were headed to a play afterwards (Samuel Beckett’s Endgame at the Arden Theater here in Philadelphia). We bought the season subscription to the theater so that it would force the two of us to get out on our own at least once in a while. As usual, it was up to me to find the restaurant, a task I accept gladly.

I opted for The Farm and the Fisherman, a BYO restaurant here in the city that we would go to a lot more if parking were even remotely easier in the neighborhood. This time, I dropped my wife off and miraculously was able to find a spot just a couple of blocks away–usually it takes me about 20 minutes, countless choice words, and even a few hand gestures before I give up and park illegally. This then leads to a parking ticket and even more exasperation as I have to take a day off to dispute the ticket in traffic court, ending in my arrest as I call the dispute officer an incompetent boob.

All avoided by 12 feet of unoccupied asphalt on 12th Street–I must have a few Karma points saved up (although I have no idea how).

I make it back to the restaurant and my lovely wife in quick order. I sit down to peruse the menu as our waitron disappeared with our bottle of 2008 Argyle Brut to open (I was not sure why she had to take it to the backroom or why she did not just let me open it–I have not quite figured why the waiters still insist on opening the bottles at BYOs–I was not even remotely loaded at that point so perfectly capable of opening it myself). I let the bottle go with a minimal amount of anxiety and focused on my wife who was recounting elements of her day which she had spent at home with the boys who had the day off from school.

Then ‘she’ walked in.

I could not help myself, I took a quick glance–I was sure I recognized her, but I did not get a good enough look to make a positive identification. My wife had caught me doing this before and scolded me severely, so I tried to be sly. I refocused on my wife and quickly added in the few nods that I was behind. It seemed to work.

As if to tease me, the mystery girl sat down at the adjacent table. Only problem: her back was to me. My wonderful wife kept talking, with another story of our boys torturing each other, but my attention was approximately 6 feet away.

I checked my iPhone.

Sneaked a peek.

Nothing.

I thought my wife noticed my indiscretion, but she kept going. I tried to focus, I even asked a couple of clarifying questions to throw her off the track. For a while I was able to block our neighbor out until the waitron brought out a bottle of champagne for her table. Little will cause me to turn my head more than a bottle of bubbly and I used this as an excuse to try and determine our mystery ‘guest’. She refused to turn around so I could get a look, but the champagne service enabled me to get a rather good glance at her profile. I also over heard a bit of the discussion, and I was able to discern that she was from California, reinforcing my previous hunch that I knew her from somewhere.

Just as I thought my wife caught me looking, our meals arrived.

Josh Lawler, the owner and chef at The Farm and the Fisherman is talented and imaginative and our meals were no exception:

My wife’s chicken

My rib eye with half bottle of Bordeaux.

We were in a bit of a rush since we had to eat and then drive across town to the Theater, so I resisted any further attempts to ascertain the identity of our dining neighbor. I did steal the odd quick glance, but it was not until we had finished our meals and my wife excused herself to go to the restroom that I made my move. I got up from the table and followed my wife halfway to the restroom where I stopped and turned, getting a much better view of the occupants of our neighboring table.

I knew it! I immediately recognized her. With my wife temporarily out of the picture, I moved in for the kill. I politely interrupted the table’s conversation and delicately asked the gentleman who had accompanied her into the restaurant if she was as good as I imagined. If he were shocked at my somewhat forward question, he surely didn’t show it. In fact, he asked if I would like to try her. I sheepishly refused, citing our pending evening at the theater.

But he insisted, grabbing her by the neck and pouring just a splash into a clean glass from an unoccupied table.

“Here, you have to at least give it a try–it’s great to come across someone who appreciates wine.”

I gave her a quick swirl, and she smelled incredible. On the palate, she was better than I had thought, but I did not have much time to savor her as my wife would be back soon. I thanked the table and apologized again, as the gentleman gave me his card. I quickly discarded the glass just as my wife came out of the restroom–I don’t think she noticed.

We made it to the car and as I pulled out of the spot she said:

“You did it again, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I’m so sorry.”

“Do you know how incredibly embarrassing that is to me?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t help it!”

She cut me off and started laughing. “I knew as soon as he walked in with a Harlan, you would not be able to help yourself.”

“You knew what he brought?”

“Yes.”

And then she paused.

“What do you take me for, some kind of Rookie?”