Hey, You! Come Watch!

Ah, what to do when a man standing in a doorway smoking calls out your name as you're crossing Broad Street? These are the dilemmas innocent women face as they try walking to a neighborhood eatery. Actually, it was Carlos at Bistro 27 standing at the kitchen door to the restaurant and beckoning me over. What fresh fun was this?

It seems the restaurant was closed for a private party (actually, a rehearsal dinner for 68) and he was suggesting that I spend the evening as a guest of the kitchen watching the action and enjoying the view from his vantage point. Hell yea, no one's ever invited me to get a first hand look at a busy restaurant on a weekend night so there was no way I was turning that down. Little did I realize what a whirlwind I was about to witness.

The guests were already in full cocktail mode, noshing on appetizers and mingling away when I took up residence in the back corner of the kitchen. A glass of Gavi di Gavi was immediately poured for me and Carlos handed me the Les Halles cookbook to prove why the tenderloin was siting out on trays (Anthony Bourdain insists meat be room temperature before hitting the grill).

I was introduced to various members of the crew and within minutes Lucia spread a towel on a shelf for me to sit on. Moments later, I was the recipient of mini crab cakes; I was liking this already. As I continued reading the expletive-filled book, one of the servers walked by and told me what a stellar book it was and the dishwasher asked if I spoke Spanish (I don't). I was already like part of the furniture.

Carlos reappeared with shrimp over his version of cocktail sauce which he calls Carlos' sauce. He told me that the recipe is top secret but that it involved mayonnaise. I didn't care what was in it; it was delicious so I ate it and got a wine refill. I was enjoying how warm it was in my little corner spot, but then, I get cold at the drop of a hat. Others appeared to be sweating.

Bruschetta came next and another person asked me if I spoke Spanish. The bustle in the kitchen was increasing madly by this point, with trays and trays of house made beef ravioli being preppped and cooked. It was served under a sauce rosa and melted in my mouth. The irony of me reading a book about the madness of a restaurant kitchen as I sat in a crazy restaurant kitchen was not lost on me.

About this time, one of the servers asked if it was possible to get chicken nuggets and fries for the antsy four year old in attendance, so the fryer was turned on and breading prepared for the chicken. Right about then, my glass began to be refilled with the Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon the chef was drinking.

Waiting in line for the ladies' room, the woman behind me introduced herself and asked if I was from the bride or groom's side. I introduced myself and explained that I was merely the guest of the chef (I started to say paramour just to spice things up, but decided against it). Turns out she was the stepmother of the bride, but gave me an enthusiastic welcome nonetheless and told me to drink up.

When it came time to cook the beef, chicken and salmon for the entrees, I moved to the bar (the party had moved to tables on the other side) to get out of the way. Shortly thereafter, the mayor and a companion came in and sat down at one of the bar tables; apparently he's a regular at 27. He certainly seemed to know all the cops who walked by on their way toward Club Rendezvous.

My beef tenderloin arrived and it was beautifully rare inside a crispy outside. It was during my enjoyment of it that the toasts began on the other side and, good god, I've never heard so many people pontificate about an impending marriage in my life; I think it was close to ten people who spoke about what incredible people these two lovebirds were.

It was during the endless toasting that the father of the bride came over to the bar ans started snapping his fingers at the staff to tell them to quiet down. Apparently taking out the champagne glasses and popping corks was preventing him from hearing the cliched thoughts of his friends and family. The staff did their best to quietly prepare 68 glasses of bubbly for the guests and I moved back into the kitchen where the people were not pompous asses.

One of the girls wiping the counters asked me my age (and paid me a compliment) so I asked her hers (19; how's that for putting me in my place?). Then she asked if I spoke Spanish. "Not any?" she lamented. Gracias was the best I could do and that was clearly disappointing her.

Once dessert was served, Carlos suggested we move back to the bar to further our conversation. Randy, his new guy, asked me what was happening tonight now that he was off the clock. I asked him why he thought I'd know and it turned out that since he'd seen me at the Against Me! show that that meant I knew how to party. I suggested the Boy-lesque show at Gallery 5, which had been my intended destination before I got sucked into the vortex of a restaurant kitchen on a busy night.

Just as Carlos and I were getting into a juicy discussion of girl vs. boy parts, a blogger girl I know showed up with a friend and they joined our group. It turned into a lively discussion of prudishness ("I don't want to see other people take off their clothes when I'm with a friend.") and experimental eating ("If I know I like chicken and beef, why would I want to try things I don't know I'd like?").

Of course, you can't say things like that to Carlos; he and I had just been discussing beef tongue tacos, of which we're both very fond. They were repulsed at his suggestions of soft-shelled crabs, spiders and sweetbreads. He tried to convince them that they should be braver in trying new foods. "You only have one life. You have to eat it."

Out of the mouth of a Brazilian to my ears. I'm eating as fast as I can.