City Paper is not for tourists
I knew better, but I still took the bait when our waiter at Hook asked if we wanted to hear about the concept behind chef Barton Seaver‘s sustainable seafood outlet in Georgetown. He proceeded to stand there and talk about the menu for five minutes, while I debated the relative merits of liquefying my brain. The one thing I took away from his monologue was the wisdom of ordering a glass of Prosecco, which, he said, pairs well with the bite-sized crudo dishes.
My wife, Carrie, and I had finished our crudo long before the waiter brought over her glass of sauvignon blanc. My Prosecco was still nowhere in sight. I chalked up the poor timing to an overtaxed bar staff, which was working hard to keep the hawks and their wingmen supplied with fuel. Turns out, though, that the bar was not responsible for my drink. Our waiter, the one so fucking jazzed about everything, finally pulled a Prosecco bottle from the wine stand located next to our table and poured me a glass.
I couldn’t let it pass. Says me: “Would have been nice to have my Prosecco in time for the crudo.”
The waiter smiles, laughs, apologizes. He even suggests a peace offering: the remainder of the Prosecco. I take up the offer. It turns out to be an extra swallow left at the bottom of the bottle.