To the Woman Seated Behind Us at AVA,
You don’t know me, but we both had dinner at AVA in San Anselmo on the same night in the very recent past.
I was so excited when I heard about AVA. Here was a restaurant attempting to interpret the concept of American Viticultural Area, usually defined in terms of wine, in an agricultural sense. When I found out that they source as many ingredients as possible from local farmers, and that they regularly shop at my favorite Marin County farmers market, I couldn’t wait to make a reservation.
As the hostess seated my man and I just inches from your table, I had the fleeting thought that you looked like a nice person, sitting there in your rose-toned brocade jacket. Grandmotherly, even. You must be in your late 60’s, so there’s a good chance you are a grandmother. We were close enough to eavesdrop on your conversation, but we were too absorbed in our menus to bother.
We felt a touch of worry as our first plates began to arrive. The grilled fava beans were delicious, and the house-smoked almonds were gobble-worthy, but the wedge of Point Reyes Pierce Point cheese was served stone cold, and our salads were just eh.
Then our entrees showed up, and we knew we were in the right place. The Moroccan had a juicy wedge of sirloin coated with a sticky-dark reduction, accompanied by a gratin of potatoes and cauliflower and cheese that just screamed yum.
I chose the amberjack resting atop a feathery bed of shaved leeks and Meyer lemon, with fat spears of grilled asparagus on the side. We had just started to exchange stories about our day when we suddenly became aware of you.
The topic at your table had shifted to politics, and you were excited. You were speaking slightly louder than before, and you seemed to grow more animated with every word.
Sadly, we heard it all. Our plates didn’t look quite as appealing with a side of your hate-filled invectives. In a shocking display of bravado, you claimed that a certain group of people should be killed en masse. "Every last one of them," you said. I gave up on my asparagus and started toying with my fork. The Moroccan continued to attack his steak, but his expression indicated that he was imagining something else beneath his knife.
You spoke as if unaware that you were broadcasting your opinions to a crowded restaurant. At first I thought that you didn’t understand what you were doing, but then I realized that you were proud of your convictions, and you didn’t care who heard you. At one point, you ground your palm into the table in front of you as you suggested that: "Marin people are so eager to make friends with the world that we’d all be dead by now if they were in charge."
Hundreds of thousands of people would be dead if you were in charge, but that point seemed lost on you.
The Moroccan raised his eyebrow at me and shifted ever-so-slightly in his seat.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned him.
He put down his napkin and halfway rose from his chair.
“Don’t!” I gasped.
He sat back down. You’re one lucky lady; you do not want this man on your case, I guarantee you.
You apparently hadn’t noticed the movement in our little corner; you were still going strong. In retrospect, we could have asked to be moved to a different table, but we didn’t. Sometimes I’m too polite for my own good. You spouted off a few more crackpot comments, and for some unknown reason, our mood suddenly lifted in spite of it. We chuckled and shook our heads. In an instant, you ceased to be an irritant and became a tragic bit of comedy instead.
My appetite returned. We even ordered desert, which we rarely do; the S’mores sounded too good to resist. A pot of molten chocolate showed up, flanked by two tiny house-made graham crackers and two square marshmallows. The crackers weren't nearly big enough to contain all that dark, oozy chocolate, so I grabbed a spoon and ate directly from the pot.
In the end, I didn’t feel angry towards you; I just felt sad. If I’m lucky enough to log more than half a century on this planet, I hope that I’ll be wiser and less fearful; more open-hearted and less condemnatory. I wish that was true of you. Maybe you’ve had a hard life; maybe your bile has a traceable source. I don’t know.
But let me tell you this: if you happen to be at AVA the next time I’m there, this very polite girl will throw down her napkin and give you a piece of her mind, whether you want it or not.
Sincerely,
Someone at the Next Table Over
