Make My Day
I was not in a very good mood about going to Los Angeles for a work conference. And the turbulence on the landing didn't help. Nor did the rude shuttle ride person. Nor did problems with check in at my hotel. But I finally got to my room, dumped my luggage on the floor, lay on the bed for about five minutes and then decided that a cocktail and some food would help a great deal. So I went back to the counter and got a recommendation from the front desk about a place to eat.
"I would like something quiet and that is not a chain restaurant and they need to serve cocktails," I said.
"I know just the place!" the concierge said. "It's a short walk from here. They won't be too busy this time of day, but usually folks can't get a table there." He sent me out the door with a street map of Hollywood.
The place was perfect. There were no windows in the restaurant. Just wood paneling. It was dark and clean and old. The condiments were in little stainless steel containers on the table. The waiters wore black pants and red coats. There were cloth napkins on the formica tables. I gratefully slid into the red leather booth and amused the waiter by telling him that I was ready to order but that I wanted to look at the menu anyway.
"I'll have a vodka martini with lemon and a club sandwich," I said as I sat down.
"Of course, ma'am."
The menu read like a diner menu - salads and sandwiches mostly. There were a few nice items on the menu, but nothing too fancy. Not typical California cuisine. The special of the day was chicken potpie, for example.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness and the ice water helped my headache. I looked around the restaurant finally and realized that I was the only woman in the place. Even the waiters and maitre'd were all men. It was late afternoon Pacific Time (early evening Central Time) and there weren't many people there.
I noticed him in the corner booth with a group of men. My eyes skimmed over him and then my brain skidded to a halt. Who is that?! I thought to myself. My brain tripped over names and movies and I tried to look at him without staring as I tried to figure it out. Late 60s maybe. Thin. White hair. I caught his mouth moving at one point as he talked with the men at his table and that's when his name slipped into my brain. Clint Eastwood. I was in the same restaurant as Clint Eastwood. He was sitting right there. I looked over at him again just to confirm that I was right. He caught me looking at him and his eyes twinkled and his lips smirked and he looked right at me while he wiggled his fingers in my direction. He continued his conversation with the men at his table.
Of course Clint Eastwood is here, I told myself. It's Hollywood. Sheesh, Lea. Be cool. This isn't the kind of place where people get freaky.
His table left before I finished. He towered over the others in his group as they walked out. I finished my sandwich and martini and left the largest tip I have ever left on a $10 lunch bill. It was still less than a ticket to the movies. It made my day.
"I would like something quiet and that is not a chain restaurant and they need to serve cocktails," I said.
"I know just the place!" the concierge said. "It's a short walk from here. They won't be too busy this time of day, but usually folks can't get a table there." He sent me out the door with a street map of Hollywood.
The place was perfect. There were no windows in the restaurant. Just wood paneling. It was dark and clean and old. The condiments were in little stainless steel containers on the table. The waiters wore black pants and red coats. There were cloth napkins on the formica tables. I gratefully slid into the red leather booth and amused the waiter by telling him that I was ready to order but that I wanted to look at the menu anyway.
"I'll have a vodka martini with lemon and a club sandwich," I said as I sat down.
"Of course, ma'am."
The menu read like a diner menu - salads and sandwiches mostly. There were a few nice items on the menu, but nothing too fancy. Not typical California cuisine. The special of the day was chicken potpie, for example.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness and the ice water helped my headache. I looked around the restaurant finally and realized that I was the only woman in the place. Even the waiters and maitre'd were all men. It was late afternoon Pacific Time (early evening Central Time) and there weren't many people there.
I noticed him in the corner booth with a group of men. My eyes skimmed over him and then my brain skidded to a halt. Who is that?! I thought to myself. My brain tripped over names and movies and I tried to look at him without staring as I tried to figure it out. Late 60s maybe. Thin. White hair. I caught his mouth moving at one point as he talked with the men at his table and that's when his name slipped into my brain. Clint Eastwood. I was in the same restaurant as Clint Eastwood. He was sitting right there. I looked over at him again just to confirm that I was right. He caught me looking at him and his eyes twinkled and his lips smirked and he looked right at me while he wiggled his fingers in my direction. He continued his conversation with the men at his table.
Of course Clint Eastwood is here, I told myself. It's Hollywood. Sheesh, Lea. Be cool. This isn't the kind of place where people get freaky.
His table left before I finished. He towered over the others in his group as they walked out. I finished my sandwich and martini and left the largest tip I have ever left on a $10 lunch bill. It was still less than a ticket to the movies. It made my day.
posted by Lea at 4:44 PM
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Do ya feel lucky, Punk? Well, do ya?
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