Sunday, June 22, 2008

Extraordinary Blooming Restaurant

A very nice person at my office has been raving about Apamate for many months, so when my husband said he tengo tapas, I took the opportunity to experience it for myself. And as its name suggests (explained on the restaurant's website) this narrow crimson cafe named for a Venezeulan tree does stand out in its own way.

Blink and you will pass right by this unassuming storefront, noted only by thin vertical strands of red lights illuminating the large square window facing South Street. Enter to the sounds of Manu Chao and Buena Vista Social Club just over the din of the front-of-the-shop kitchen, and your eyes gaze from the dark wood furniture, to the deep red walls, to the Spanish tile countertop and the chocolate caliente mixer, reminding you to save room for churros.

The waitstaff are helpful and informed, happy to make recommendations on not only what to eat but how to eat it. Apamate serves small and large plates along with a laundry list of tapas. Only here they are called "pintxos," which is either a ploy to separate itself from the growing glut of tapas restaurants throughout the city, or a subliminal semantic trick to further remind its patrons that these plates are, in fact, teeny tiny "pinches" of food.

We plowed through 3 or 4 pintxos, in addition to the serrano ham and bechamel croquettes and an a seafood paella entree. The ingredients were fresh and organic, the flavors were authentic and robust, and the meal was affordable - borderline cheap. We saved room for churros, as did a few other parties who came through just to order dessert. And when the server accidentally brought us the wrong dish (dulce de leche instead of Nutella, really neither is wrong!), they corrected the mistake by giving us the right one on the house. Now that's class.

Cafe Apamate
1620 South Street

Monday, June 02, 2008

Monday, not so much

I think it's time I tackle my dating patterns. While this is probably best done by a shrink, I think my tendency towards comfort eating and countless hours of daytime TV logged over the years have left me just as qualified as any. 

Date # 2 aka 6. I tried to pop that zit about an hour before the date. Take it from me. Never do this. It just turned a fairly noticeable white head into a oozing bloody welt. Cutting bangs was too dicey considering the only time I cut hair was about 20 years ago on my barbie and she ended up losing her head. So, As I packed foundation into my open wound, I realized the night was going to be slightly less than magical. 

Don't get me wrong, I haven't completely discounted him, but here's what I think happened. I think I spent the whole first date trying to make myself look good and the second date, well I spend it judging him. We were both tired and didn't make reservations (since it was his turn to pick the place) and we just ended up going to ten stone, which is hit or miss. It was loud and there was a group of drunk barely legal dudes next to me and one had his ass in my face. The convo was fairly strained, mostly because of all of the drunkies around us, and me not being one of them. Believe me, I tried. But the beers weren't taking. And all I got was a general sense of self involvement. Even in the making out. I thought the point of dating an older man was that they had already outgrown the bullshit. 

Anyway. I think he's feeling the same way cause we haven't really spoken since then, aside from the random short texts. I may be willing to give him another shot. Maybe it was just an off night, and otherwise I'm heading back to No Man Land. But the butterflies have gone, or at least have been placed in a jar and someone forgot the air holes. C'est le vie. Bring on on the cats.