This time last year, I spent a week in LA having a great girly week with my Johnny Depp friends while OH explored the Grand Canyon and Utah, meeting up with his own internet buddies. Then we flew up to Vancouver to see his brother and spent another week there.
If you’re ever in Vancouver, go and eat at the Al Porto, in Gastown. Just do it. Go and find the Al Porto ristorante Italiano. It doesn’t look much from the outside, but the food is out of this world. And that’s not their only claim to fame.
We chose the place at random. Dead on our feet from sightseeing, and starving to death, I tripped over the board standing out on the pavement and staggered over to examine the menu. Looked good! We gazed up at the front of the building. Didn’t look very good at all, but what the heck, we were hungry and tired and there were seats inside.
And indeed there were. Upstairs, in that rather plain looking building, there was a quietly bustling, and really rather nice-looking restaurant with white tablecloths and everything. A grey-haired waiter appeared promptly, and taking in our travel-stained shorts and trainers, showed us to a table at the back. But oh, so very tactfully, and with a smile.
And that’s when the fun began.
Our waiter arrived. A different waiter. This one looked a little bit like an updated and improved version of a young John Travolta. Tall and dark with a million-watt smile and a decided twinkle lurking behind his extremely deferential air, he brought our menus, and made eye contact. He inspected the table to make sure it was perfect - and when he saw OH examining his cutlery with suspicion, he immediately returned with an air of wounded concern, eager to know how he had failed in his waiterly duties.
I said ‘It’s OK, my husband has a thing about tines’ and explained that crooked forks gave OH the heebie-jeebies, so all forks had to pass The Scrutiny.
The waiter smiled with complete understanding. That fork got replaced faster than you can say ‘Garçon!‘ and that set the tone for the evening.
Having multiple allergies, I have to enquire about many menu items, and this guy handled it. He didn’t sigh, or tut, or say ‘I don’t know’, he listened with a tiny crease between his brows, head tilted in my direction and an air of total absorbtion. He strode elegantly off to the kitchen, not once, but many times, to give the chef the third degree. He made suggestions. And what’s more, he managed to joke about it all with me, without once giving the impression that he was taking it as anything but a life-and-death matter.
The bread basket arrived with a smile, and a genuine, top-shelf, hint of a flirt. And it was amazingly delicious. The bread was delicious, I mean, although it had been so long since anyone had flirted with me that I found that pretty nice, too.
We ordered bruschetta. Oh, my. That bruschetta was something else. The bread was clearly made on the premises for the purpose and the flavours of garlic and tomato and parmigiano just exploded in the mouth. I shouldn’t even be eating bread in the first place, but … aaaaaahh!! It was irresistible!
Our waiter was delighted by our delight. He beamed, and he twinkled charmingly.
I can’t remember what OH ordered, but I went for the free-range chicken breast, which came with perfectly cooked vegetables and crushed potatoes, if I remember rightly, but who cares? It was amazing. Just delectable! And the waiter was overjoyed that we were happy, and stayed to exchange a little banter. He was quick, and funny, and made me feel like the wittiest person in the room, although OH didn’t do too badly either.
‘I wonder which school of waitering he went to?’ OH was heard to mutter, as the elegant black-clad rear disappeared happily once more.
I looked at him. He was smirking.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Haven’t you noticed?’ he said. ‘You’re the one whose glass gets filled as soon as you put it down.’
I looked at his half-empty wine glass and my own brimming one. Oh. Tee hee!
From then on, I have to say, I enjoyed myself. I don’t usually throw caution to the winds and flirt with strange men in front of my husband, but this guy was just so good at it - and OH sat there smirking and quietly enjoying the show, only now and then making barbed comments under his breath which made me choke with laughter and probably gave the departing garçon a brief moment of insecurity.
The guy was pretty cool. Although I think I shook him a little when he brought the serrated knife with my meal and I pounced on it and waved it in the air, pronouncing ‘Now, that’s what I call a knife!’
But at the end of the meal, when we sat smiling our Cheshire Cat smiles of perfect repletion and he came to ask if we’d enjoyed the meal, we did, at last, manage to shake his unflappable calm.
‘It was the best meal I’ve had in years!’ I gushed.
‘It was great!‘ said OH. ‘It was so good, that I want to shoot the chef, and she wants to have your babies!’
The million-watt smile became the tiniest bit fixed and he froze for a fraction of an instant, but he recovered quickly and laughed with us. However, when we went back later in the week he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
The following conversation ensued.
Me: I can’t see that waiter we had last time. Do you remember him?
OH: Oh yes. I remember him well. With his long, slicked back hair and his smile and his perfume.
Me: He was wearing perfume? I didn’t get close enough to find out!
OH: Oh yes. It was Eau de Waiter. No - make that Eau de Bastard.
Pause.
OH (hopefully): Perhaps he’s been sacked?
Me: Any restaurant that sacked that waiter would have to be insane.
OH: Mmm.
Me: Perhaps we frightened him off?
OH: Sweetheart, no-one who was easily shocked or embarrassed would be behaving as that boy was behaving with you.
I’m not convinced. But anyway. I can’t guarantee an evening of delightfully naughty flirting, but do go there if you can. The food really is incredible.
At least, it was last year. It’s almost worth another trip to Vancouver, just to find out.
Driving back from a shopping trip, we were discussing the wind-up torch I’d just bought at a discount store. Other Half was not convinced it was any good.
