By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
8:05 p.m. Still no sign of a server. No, that's not true. There's a couple of them scurrying over on the other side of the patio, dropping off drinks, picking up dishes. But none wander off to our lonely wing. This is distressing because those men are starting to talk about golf. I really need a drink. I re-enter the restaurant and ask how long it will be before someone drops by to take our order. "Immediately," I'm assured.
8:10 p.m. A busboy arrives and serves us ice water, which does nothing to relieve the stresses of golf conversation. We decide to pass the time by observing the kinds of cars the valet across the street at the Hard Rock Café has to park.
8:13 p.m. The host/manager finally shows up to take our drink order. Convinced he will be sucked down an air shaft just after he drops off our order at the bar, we load him up with appetizer and entrée orders to boot. We're horrified to realize we neglected to order dessert as he leaves us with our ice water. I note the fourth Mustang pulling into the Hard Rock valet.
8:20 p.m. Drinks arrive at the same time a Ferrari 360 Spider rolls down Routh Street. The men stop talking about golf, so I suppress the urge to chug.
8:30 p.m. One of my dining companions wonders when her soup will arrive. French onion soup. This is an odd thing to have on a patio when the temperature is 87 degrees. The question is not when, but why. I also notice all of the convertibles that pass by--be they Porsches, Beemers or Mustangs--have their tops up. Is it hotter than 87 degrees?
8:35 p.m. The men start talking about stiff joints (not the kind you light). We need drink refills fast. No one is in sight. I wander off again to track down a server, sensing the conversation may veer into prostate health. I find a busboy. He nods and mumbles. I pray my gesturing doesn't confuse him into bringing more ice water.
8:40 p.m. Our appetizers arrive, including the French onion soup. It is a fine soup, delivered in a shallow white bowl floating slices of toast tarped with gooey sheets of cheese stained amber from the broth. The broth is sweet, just slightly so, with a distinct layer of pepper. It's clean. Also in this delivery is a mozzarella salad with slices of juicy tomato shingled with stark white mozzarella drooled with pesto. The salad is fine, though the mozzarella is a little dull, most certainly not buffalo.