Killing Monday

It was a simple plan.

I took the remaining sections of Sunday's Washington Post and went to dinner at Bistro Bobette, content to have reading material and good eats.

The end result was so much better.

When I arrived, it was to a server who recognized me and directed me to the bar with a smile.

There, I found two couples who graciously welcomed me.

I began with a glass of a grenache/mouvedre blend and a look at the bar menu.

As I slurped a bowl of the soup du jour (vegetable/pasta with Parmesan) and enjoyed a mixed green salad (where did they get such flavorful grape tomatoes this time of year?), the couple at the end of the bar introduced themselves.

Except that they weren't really a couple.

He was from Raleigh, N.C. and she was from Arlington and they'd both brought their own bottles of wine since there's no corkage fee on Monday nights.

Before long, they wanted to know my back story and I wanted to know how they'd ended up eating together.

Next thing I knew, they were inviting me to join them for lunch tomorrow at Buzz and Ned's for baby back ribs and further conversation.

Seems they're both regular visitors to Richmond and were excited at the idea of having a local guide.

They insisted that at the very least, I meet them back at Bobette next Monday for more chatting.

Meanwhile, I moved on to lamb tenderloin over couscous, swooning over the buttery-textured meat and savory grain.

It didn't hurt that the music was Pandora with a starting point of Thievery Corporation, meaning a nice range of jazz to bossa nova for my listening pleasure.

The chatty couple said goodnight just after a new mustached arrival took a seat near me.

He turned out to be the producer of "Killing Lincoln" and had just come from Mama Zu's.

I was introduced by the owner and enjoyed a bit of conversation with a man who will be in Richmond through the end of the summer.

Cataloging where he'd eaten so far (Arcadia, Tio Pablo, Kuba, Kuba, Edo's, Millie's), I tried to make suggestions to better represent Richmond.

He told a charming story of buying a nice watch for his son when he was 18 and holding on to it until the son was 27, the better for him to appreciate it.

I had to assume he was a smart man based on that story alone.

After he left, the Raleigh guy returned and offered to buy my girlfriend and I a drink.

Given that he'd already made a stop at Tobacco Company since we'd seen him last, we declined.

Not to be unkind, but the chef had finished cooking and come out and he was far better company than someone who was obviously on the prowl.

"I see how men look at you," my friend observed. Like idiots, I asked?

Because the chef cooked for many years in my hometown, Washington, we got off on a tangent about what works there versus here,

He lamented that kidneys and other exotica no longer get ordered at his restaurant.

Sweetbreads are about the only offal he consistently sells, he said.

When a French-speaking customer stole the chef's attention, my girlfriend and I returned to the matter at hand: girltalk.

Men and bathrooms and space. The important stuff.

Best line overheard: I'm a pain in the ass but I'm always right.

I finished my meal with chocolate truffles and more wine, while we discussed good and bad Asian food, the pursuit of nose to tail menus and our preference for brunch menus that don't depend solely on egg dishes.

But then maybe we're atypical.

Next thing I knew, it was closing time and I had yet to open my Post.

Newspapers can wait, perfect strangers not so much.