The Last Hiding Place on Lower Greenville

“I will be coming from the gym. I hope it’s okay if I am a little grubby.” The message appears on my phone with a ting.

“Oh, same,” I reply. “Now we can both be a little grubby.”

That shared agreement is important. Two gym outfits cancel each other out and presumably make you invisible to those who don’t condone such attire in public.

Call it development, call it gentrification, but Lower Greenville is settling into its revamped nightlife niche slowly but steadily. The latest jewel in the crown, Blind Butcher, is sustaining its meaty and beer-y buzz. Even as we somewhat sadly bid adieu to Zubar, I have found myself belly up to new establishments’ bars or at the two-top of one of these new, more “health-conscious” restaurants. As bougie as it may be, I do like having so many variations of Brussels sprouts available to me in my neighborhood. A girl has to eat.

But there is still one mystery door hanging on the crowded Greenville block, one spot we pass that some of us assumed was closed. A door I had not darkened since prior to a homecoming dance in the mid-’90s. A place that has always, in some way, seemed out of place, and yet continues to welcome someone, through its stark entrance and warmed pots.

See also: 10 Ways to Convince People You Went to Lower Greenville Before Trader Joe’s

That place is, of course, the lower Greenville location of Simply Fondue.

It doesn’t occur to me until I am en route that the last time I had been there I had an up-do and some curls that likely needed a good tousle. And now I am on my way, in a pair of compression pants and Nikes, to see if this place is indeed still open and indeed still serving dinner.

With every new opening, every spacious new patio or rooftop to enjoy, Simply Fondue grows more and more eccentric on the block. Though part of a chain, the original location actually does sort of seem like the ghost of a former thing. Which is either poetic or sad. Sipping espresso outside of Mudsmith or walking past its doors on our way down the block, the fondue spot always comes up in conversation.

“I just don’t understand,” someone will mention.

“I can’t tell if it’s open,” someone will reply.

I always knew it was open; some of my favorite people-watching is sitting on those patios and trying to guess which door pedestrians on Greenville will be walking into. I always get the Simply Fondue customer wrong.

I live in East Dallas. Watching Greenville Avenue metamorphose has been at times perfect and at times infuriating. Like Deep Ellum, it’s a neighborhood that is always on the brink of coming back or dying; it’s the same cyclical conversation peppering the ether since I had a car and a small disposable income.

“I just drove by. I don’t think anyone is in there,” my phone tings again. I am on my way to the place I am never on my way to.

“Do you have a reservation?” the host asks us.

We both look down at our compression pants. “Um, no.”

It’s impossible to tell who is sitting in Simply Fondue. The booths are so high that it looks and feels empty, despite at least half the tables being occupied. The bar is empty, not only of people, but of booze. A collection of red and white wine sits waiting to be poured, but even they manage to look forgotten. Somehow we have to wait 12 minutes for a table. I assume it’s because they are prepping a hot pot, but no one mentions it. As we sit there at the empty bar, trying to figure out who is inside these oft-forgotten doors, we realize we are about to pay full price to cook our own food in a restaurant.

There is something locally made on the wall. I won’t remember anything about the music, but surely it’s there. The food is fine. The wine is free. Our waitress asks us if we have a Groupon. She asks everyone.

We find ourselves there on either side of a fondue pot to find out just what the hell is going on in here. There are other Greenville stalwarts: The Grape, St. Martin’s, Terrili’s. Places whose identities inform the freshman crop of new Dallas institutions more than competes with them. We find ourselves on either side of a fondue pot to just make sure it is actually open, because our curiosity about its fate is starting to turn into an obsession. “I think I saw someone go into Simply Fondue!” my phone will ting occasionally with messages from friends on other patios.

I know it is complex, but we lost Zubar and we are keeping Simply Fondue. I know it is complex, but Deep Ellum isn’t ever coming back to what it was. It is becoming what it is. I know it is complex, but the same is true of Greenville Avenue. I know it is complex, but some of these places have ideas about this neighborhood that are new to me.

So, what is going on in there? It’s fondue, at its most basic. But it was nice to be on my way to a place I never am. It was nice to think about all the ghosts haunting the block and what might be worth reviving and what we should let gracefully die.

And now I know there is a place, mixed among the most written-about nightlife, where I can show up for dinner without a reservation. In my sweatpants. And not run into a soul.

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