When the Weather Outside is Frightful

It's the inverse snow effect.

As soon as it's forecast, as soon as everyone starts announcing closings, I begin plotting where I can go that's still open.

While I understand that snow makes many people want to cocoon, making soup and hot chocolate, I begin to feel claustrophobic and in dire need of conversation.

Mercifully, there are solutions for that, like making tracks for a neighborhood bistro, in this case Max's on Broad.

Trudging the sidewalks, umbrella in hand, I remembered meeting a Canadian at the now-defunct Belvidere on Broad during a snowstorm a few years back.

He was highly amused, scornful even, by the way Virginians used umbrellas for snow, not that that prevented me from having an umbrella in hand tonight.

Max's was far busier than I expected (one of the valets said he'd already parked eight cars), with a large group upstairs and a smattering of men drinking downstairs.

Fortunately for me, one of them was a friend so I joined him at the end of the bar.

Anticipating that my meal was going to start with French onion soup given the tingling in my toes, I began with Didier Desvignes Domaine du Calvaire de Roche-Gres Fleurie because I love how the gamay grape's acidity cuts through the richness of a soup like that.

My friend joined me in his own bowl of soup while I heard about the headaches of his day, not the least of which was the weather because he's in the restaurant business.

When he asked me about the writing life, I had to admit that bad weather days are kind of great for me because I'm less tempted to head out and about so I stay in and meet deadlines instead.

It leaves me feeling quite virtuous, but starved for conversation, not an issue when you run into a chatty friend.

He told me about a big party he and his sweetheart are planning, one with a budget that exceeds my quarterly income, and one to which I will be invited.

With snow swirling outside and a surprising number of people walking and biking down Broad Street, we moved on to dinner.

I chose the Crab Louie cocktail which I'd had before while he got all manly on me, ordering a NY strip with Bernaise and frites.

Like last time, I was impressed with the amount of crabmeat and abundance of lumps, but tonight's had a decidedly pasteurized taste, leading us to conclude it was probably canned crabmeat, something I prefer to avoid, having grown up in Maryland with particular crab preferences.

But with enough lemon juice and a bit of salt, I managed.

By the time we ordered dessert, the group had left and restaurant employees were starting to arrive at the bar. The music went from Edith Piaf to the Head and the Heart, a sure sign that the evening was winding down.

Friend had chosen the trifle, a mistake because what arrived was nothing like trifle, more like a misguided deconstruction with alternate ingredients.

I chose the cream puff which turned out to be three puffs, a bonus, but the ganache was milk chocolate and not dark chocolate, a miscalculation in my book given the sweetness of the cream filling.

Since my friend had pushed his trifle aside after two bites, I gave him a cream puff for a consolation prize.

We talked about a recent article of NYC food critics' pet restaurant peeves - server phrases like "no problem" and "what are we thinking for dinner?" among them- as we finished up our wine.

It was when we saw our first snow plow lumbering down Broad Street (blade up, mind you), that we broke camp and headed out past the valets huddled in the makeshift vestibule into the blustery night.

In my book, it was still ridiculously early, but at least I'd gotten some conversation out of my system.

Sometimes that's all I need. Sometimes, more.