Pitch Perfect

If I'd been any more productive today, I'd have gotten a gold star stuck to my forehead.

As it was I had "pitch perfect" and "excellent" tossed my way and that was before I was told that I had on a Marcia Brady dress.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

As if that weren't enough, I planted the basil and told corporate HQ not to close my local branch.

This is apparently what happens when you get up at the ungodly hour of 7:15 (shudder).

Hopefully never again.

But by early evening, all thoughts of usefulness were forsaken for the allure of "Meet the Chef" at Bistro 27.

Of course I already know the chef, but that's not the point.

The point is that all the wines are five bones and they come with the tapas of the day, which today was braised oxtail empanadas,

I'm guessing an awful lot of people ate out yesterday because the restaurants in my neighborhood all looked pretty slow when I wandered over to 27.

The bar crowd was no more than me, my seatmate, the Arts District's best tattoo artist  and a couple of guys.

Like us, they were there for cheap wine, good food and random conversation.

In between chattering, we scarfed down calamari fritti, mussels in a white wine, cream and black pepper broth (especially good for the spice cutting the cream) and gnocchi in braised oxtail ragout.

If it wasn't a good night for oxtail, you couldn't have proven it by us.

One of the male bar sitters turned out to share my appreciation for South Africa and we talked about overly close proximity to rhinos (not as terrifying as it is potentially deadly), perfect pairings in Capetown and the glory of a glass of pinotage.

Unlike me, he was actually having one, the earthy Paarl Heights pinotage I'd enjoyed there just the other day.

To me, it seemed like more of a Gavi evening, although just the other night at 27's speakeasy, I'd tasted the Death in the Afternoon, a surprisingly appealing drink combination of absinthe, sugar and bubbles.

But productive people don't drink Death in the Afternoon on a Monday night if they plan to be productive on Tuesday.

At least this Monday.

We heard a love story (how they met and how it was going looking for a shared place), a travel story (NYC and more food than any two people should consume in a weekend) and some Brazilian history (why is it the women are always the hard workers?).

When it became clear that closing time was going to arrive sooner rather than later, we ordered a mango panna cotta, pleasing the European among us no end with its delicate and refreshing flavor.

Passing a couple of smiling guys eating at a table on my way to the bathroom, I expressed surprise that they were still there eating since they'd been there some time earlier when I'd first walked by.

"As long as you keep on walking by, we're going to keep on eating," the bolder one said with a grin.

I wasn't sure which to admire more, his nerve or his restraint. I know I wouldn't slow my eating for anyone.

On the other hand, I was being productive at getting those guys to clean their plates, so it could be that it was just part of my overall efficiency today.

Maybe my friends are right and people really do say absolutely anything to me.

Or perhaps the Marcia Brady dress is more powerful than I realized.

Hey, whatever makes me productive. But beware.