I had to fight hard after work today, to stay away from The Vine. I fear I am becoming a Vine Addict. It’s fairly frightening – I used to be happy just sitting at home drinking wine. And I think it is because of The Vine that (horrors) I DID NOT HAVE ANY WHITE WINE IN THE HOUSE TODAY. This never, ever happens. It’s The Vine’s fault for having an endless supply of all the things I love white-wise – Pinot Gris, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc. At around four P.M. I start to get itchy for white wine, and I used to be able to satisfy that itch at home. Those days are clearly gone.

I fought the urge instead of giving in (and god knows I am a major pushover when it comes to arguments with myself) because I am having a party on New Year’s Day, and tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. And I am getting over a cold, and I went to The Vine last night. One must take a break, if only for stamina’s sake.

My party, the second annual gathering for hangover relief, starts at 11:30 and I have bought insane amounts of liquids and solids – insane, because I have absolutely no idea how many people are coming. I think I can safely count on twelve people, but who knows, maybe forty will actually show up. The food has taken a bit of a white-trash turn, mostly because this is the stuff that tastes really good when you have a hangover. Check out the menu:

Clam Dip… Salsa and Chips…
Turkey Pot Pie, Spinach Enchilada Casserole Thingy,
Scalloped Potatoes with Ham. Hoppin’ John! Cocktail Weenies with Bourbon Slather.
My one nutritious menu item? Salad, but with candied pecans on it.
My over the top dessert? Bread Pudding Laced with Honey Grappa.

The warehouse manager at the main office was nice enough to inform me we have tomorrow off, otherwise I’d be sitting here working, instead of cooking, which I clearly need to start early on.

It’s almost 2005, who knew we would make it this far. Happy New Year to my faithful readers and all my buds and even you, Mr. Spammer.

Love,
Vinoaddictuspoptarticus.

I have a perfect Christmas Tree. I went out with the intention to buy one, and did, at Target, on a very warm and sunny day. Warm like 70 degrees warm, sucka.

I have a thing for Christmas Trees. I don’t really care about other Christmas stuff at all. I like presents, of course, the buying and receiving of. Also I have been known to be fond of alcohol-laced eggnog. But I am not a Christian (or anything anti-Christian, I just believe in the Great Spirit, dude) so I don’t get into the setting up of mangers and I am definitely not the type to put a giant Santa or Reindeer in my front yard. But a tree… I take care of a dying Christmas tree better than I take care of my one live plant. Why? I like to think it is because I have some crazy collective memory thing going on, that goes back to my days as a pagan many centuries ago. But it is probably a bit simpler than that.

When I was thirteen I watched my mom watch our Christmas tree. For some reason, this one year she was totally into that tree and she sat in front of it for hours, staring at it, totally happy. At least that’s the way I remember it. The overall feeling for me was, my mother is at peace. Everything is going just right at the moment. She is happy and she loves that Christmas Tree. She was younger than I am now and red and yellow Christmas tree lights picked up her happy energy and projected it back, towards me. I am not a painter but I could paint that, if you gave me the right paints.

Life goes in cycles though, and three years later I spent my first Christmas on my own. I was sixteen and had my very first tree, and bought my very first ornaments. My life was in total upheaval but I had my little tree, and it grounded me. I still have those first ornaments. Every year I buy a couple more. In Venice I bought some crazy disco earrings and made ornaments out of them, and I have a manger scene in a tiny coconut shell I bought in Budapest. (Yeah, I know, I am not into manger scenes but this thing is really cool, also it goes on a Tree.)

So I have my little tree, the one that called out to me at Target. It is only four feet tall so I put it on an empty box covered with pillowcases. It’s got the ornaments collected over twenty three years of my life on it’s branches and a little copper mesh heart I bought at a garage sale this morning crowns the top. Underneath is a little pink princess, and under that, the coconut shell manger. Jesus, I am such a girl sometimes. Shit, did I just say Jesus? Fuck.

There are some things that have been puzzling me lately, like how come people go Christmas shopping on the day after Thanksgiving? I mean, why would someone put themselves through that hell?

Also, why do people buy crap for each other? By crap I mean, crappy presents. Like bad scarves and cheap calendars. It is a science, buying good presents. Good scientists don’t shop at crappy malls.

When I was living in San Francisco, I used to go down to Union Square around Christmas, to look at the big tree in Union Square and have a Gibson at Scala or Champagne at the Rotunda at Neiman Marcus. Shopping didn’t get me down there – the drinks did. I love the Rotunda at Neiman Marcus. The big tree almost hitting the fantastic ceiling, the children dressed up in outfits that cost more than my whole wardrobe, the bartenders who are just regular guys and who are nice to everybody, even people with safety-pin piercings in their eyebrows. To get up to the Rotunda though, you have to (unless you know the secret trick) walk across the ground floor to the escalator. And on the way, even in this most expensive of stores, they have tables and tables of the most hideous and bizarre crap, only priced at $69.95 instead of $19.95. Same ugly scarf, only it’s cashmere instead of polyester. Something like that.

It’s one of the only things I miss about San Francisco, along with the Thai House and my old roommates and friends – barhopping in Union Square at a great cost once a year at Christmastime. Well maybe not only at Christmastime – there were also those afternoons after getting my teeth cleaned at 450 Suffer Street. Whateves, those days are gone.

I’ve already done all my shopping and I did it in Venice so everyone will be happy, just to get an item from Venice. Everything seems better when you hauled it from a foriegn country, even slippers. But I am not the gift genius in my family – that would be my brother Jay. He always goes crazy and spends too much money, but he manages to pick out the best stuff. Last year he got me a set of regulation Bocce Balls and Jeff Buckley Live at Sine, among other things. That’s pretty good, eh? My brother Tom gave me a juicer and I haven’t even used it in almost a year, because it takes up half my kitchen. Maybe I’ll wrap it up and give it back to him, heh heh.

Onward. Only three more shopping weeks ’till Christmas, but you won’t find moi anywhere near a store. Unless there is a cool place to have a Gibson inside.

And if I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, but have a look around and you’ll figure it out on your own.

It’s been a little hard the past couple of days, because of the Wilco show. After such a joyous occasion, life seems sort of boring. I want every night to be like a going-to-see-Wilco night, but of course this is impossible, unless you are in Wilco, or doing lights or sound for Wilco, or having sex with someone in Wilco, and then it probably wouldn’t be so great anyway.

But we move on in our lives and lucky for me, something momentous has happened in the neighborhood. Something I have been waiting for, for months – no, since I moved here. Actually, I think I have been waiting my whole life, but I just didn’t know it yet. This momentous something? It’s a WINE BAR!!!!

The bars in my neighborhood of Ocean Beach, San Diego are not really known for their wine selections – it’s more like a surfer, stoner, and biker crowd around here, and they drink Bud Light and Margaritas. I love Ocean Beach for it’s non-yuppifiedness, but it also sucks that I don’t have anywhere in the ‘hood I can go and have a glass of wine and read a book, something that I have been known to do from time to time. So I do my outdoor wine-drinking and reading down at Sunset Cliffs, but it is getting a little cold out there for that now.

On the corner of Bacon and Niagara there used to be a funky Italian place that had pizza and pasta and had major spelling errors on their specials board outside. I never went in, because it looked awful. I used to walk by and think “oh, how I would love to open a wine bar in that place.” I mentioned it to the two people I know around here, even. And then, nastypizza closes, and there is a sign in the window, a WINE BAR is coming soon! That was a long time ago, and I have been waiting not-so-patiently for the new wine bar to open.

Well, tonight they did. The bar is called The OB Vine, and I have been walking by every day for weeks to check on the situation. I watched the place transform from a dingy pizzeria to a more open space, then more open space with tables, then a nicely-painted more open space with tables and tableclothes. The past few days I have been practically peeing my pants wondering WHEN, oh WHEN; today (because in some ways I am seriously in contact with higher powers) I finally called.

Sky: “Hello, The Vine, this is Sky.”
Me: (panting) “Are you open yet?”
Sky: “Yes.”
Me: (Falling over, practically dropping the phone) “Really? Since when?”
Sky: “Today is our first day, we have a limited menu, but…”
Me: “I’LL BE RIGHT OVER.”

Well, I sort of had to finish working first but I walked to the post office at 5:15 and then I went straight to The Vine. And even though Wilco is over, The OB Vine is here to stay! (We hope.) I sat down at the bar and tried not to gush, unsuccessfully. The Vine looks good – a nice bar, well lit, with little hooks under the bar to hang your coat or purse (something totally unheard of in OB till now, I am fairly sure.) They have a well-thought out wine list of several pages with lots of interesting selections. It is the best wine list I have seen at any wine bar in San Diego, for sure, and right here in my own backyard! Also, when I walked in there were a bunch of cute guys lined up against the wall, waiting to serve people. This, in a neighborhood where all the servers are young blond chicks! The owner, I think, is either really smart, or he is gay.

I hung out there and drank a glass of Albarino and after, a glass of Leal Cabernet, and checked things out. The limited menu had a cheese plate with cheeses from Chimay in Belgium and from goats in Spain; there was ahi tartare and a guacamole salad. The mood was subdued, but still I managed to sneak in a couple of exchanges with Sky, who has a profile like Michelangelo?s David, but with better eyes and nostrils.

Me: “How come the Flying Dog Doggie Style Pale Ale is the same price as a Bud?”
Sky (sweetly): “That is a good question.”

I have a big problem now. I am going to be spending too much money in this place. It is going to be hard not to sit there for hours, hard not to want to splurge on a bottle of Veuve, now that there’s a place in the ‘hood that I can do this. But I am ecstatic that there is a place for me, outside of my house. If you can’t find me at home, and you know I am not traveling, I’ll be at The Vine.

I never left the house today – couldn’t. I don’t think an election has ever made me feel so ill before. But now that I think about it I was feeling pretty ill for the months leading up to the election. Now it is over, and it feels good to have it over. Even though the bile is still there in the pit of my stomach, perhaps a ration of Gatorade is on the way.

So what do we do now? First I want to say, I don’t hate the other half. I don’t understand why their choice was so appealing to them, but I also understand that they have regular lives and jobs (for now anyway) and families (hopefully all safe and sound and not between 18 – 30 years of age,) and that they were doing what they thought was necessary to protect these things. Hating the other half would probably be what our government wants, also I really hate hate. It just eats you up in the end. If I am going to get eaten, I want to be eaten by too many bottles of wine and too many late nights. I prefer a tastier way of getting eaten.

Often times when you ask an Italian a political question, they just shrug. They have a very distinctive way of shrugging. Like “well, what can I do?” Today, all of us on the other side have to shrug and say, well, we did the best we could, and now it is time to move on. No better place to start, than home.

Speaking of home, MY home… Donna Frye, our “write-in” candidate for mayor, is WINNING. Now this gives me hope for the future. She has a constant furrowed brow, is totally honest, and owns a SURF SHOP. It is beyond cool and sort of helps aleve the gloomy reality of four more years.

And now a lyric from the new Delgados song, “Now and Forever” for all those who threw positive energy into the universe.

There was a time when we’d sit on the ground
Never look up from the down that surrounds
If we fail we won’t fall
Are you ready to call
Now and forever

OK I’ll stop being corny now, but even though things have not changed, and probably will get worse, things HAVE changed, and will also get better. Eventually.

Halloween. What is it about this holiday that makes me feel like I want to pound some valium? Do I have any valium? Hmmm….

I don’t remember trick-or-treating too often. I grew up in a rural coastal hamlet, but there were a couple of housing tracts down the highway, and that is where all the kids went to trick-or-treat. There was no point wasting time on our own street, where the take would most likely be carob kisses, fig bars, and “earth muffins.” Clipper’s Ridge and Frenchman’s Creek, with their streets and cul-de-sacs full of identical houses and lit porch-lights, were the places to be. Odd that I can?t remember the actual act of trick-or-treating, but that I remember where I wanted to do it. I do remember the different ways my brothers and I sorted and stored our candy. Candy was pretty much verboten in our house, and we didn’t take the hoard lightly. I always ate the good stuff, the miniature Butterfingers and tiny packets of M &M’s, too quickly, because my self-control in those days was even worse than it is now. That would leave me with a selection of the 2nd rate stuff like those mints they give you in a restaurant for free. Then it would be all about my brother Jay, who carefully sorted and stored his hoard and had it for weeks after I had already consumed all of my candy. Jay was also a kid who ordered bubble gum ice cream at Swensen’s and kept all the gumballs stuffed in his cheeks, like a chipmunk, as he ate. I would have chewed all the gumballs at once and spit them out as soon as the flavor was gone.

I do remember costumes. I know as a very young girl I had a princess costume, and later this princess dress ended up on a giant stuffed animal that doubled for me a couple of times when I snuck out in the middle of the night. Later, I ended up as a sort of mini-Stevie Nicks, always a gypsy, wearing assorted scarves and peasant dresses and jangly bracelets. I still haven’t gotten over the “I am a Princess” thing (because I AM, just not living in in the country where I, uh, am a Princess) and I really am a nomadic, gyspy kind of person. So do the costumes you wear as a kid create what you think of yourself as an adult? Or are your costumes already pre-ordained and your parents are just carrying out the wishes of the cosmos? Hmmm…

When I was thirteen, me and two friends dressed up in identical baby-doll nighties, all different colors. We were probably too old to be trick-or-treating, and definitely too young to be wearing those nighties. I was no Lolita, and only felt revulsion for the way I looked and how people were looking at me. That was one costume that was absolutely not me. Well, not until I was in my thirties anyway. Then I liked to get dressed up like a twisted Daisy Duke, but even then, never, ever on Halloween.

For much of my adult-life-so-far I lived in San Francisco, and out of fifteen years there I spent nine living in the Castro district. The Castro being, like, Halloween central. It sounds pretty cool and fun and urban, this party where 300,000 people descend on your neighborhood, but it is anything but. These people, coming out of the bridges and tunnels and holes in the earth, come to gawk, litter, and vent their anger and frustration on a night when they can get away with it. The energy in the Castro is really ugly. The night BEFORE Halloween, when everyone from the neighborhood goes out to show off their costumes and practice their strut, is always a lot of fun. Halloween though? yuck. In the early days, I actually had a Halloween party, and I opened my door for someone and something like fifteen people followed her in. They made themselves at home and I worked myself into a frenzy trying to figure out how to get them out. After they drank all the sangria, they asked me to make more, and I was like, are you fucking high? Get out of my house! After that I never had a Halloween party again.

A couple of years later, one Halloween night I heard that River Phoenix had died, and morphing into a Castro drama queen right up there with the best of them, I looked glum and cried and wailed at the bar of a Mexican restaurant while a sympathetic bartender made me a series of really strong margaritas. The combo of death and tequila did not help me navigate the throng outside when I finally left the bar. I got stuck on a streetcar platform with no way to escape. All the way down Market Street there was a sea of heads, the sound of breaking bottles, and a feeling that someone was going to get their head smashed in. I swore at that moment, never again will I go out on Halloween. Instead, I bought provisions and locked myself inside. From my bedroom window, I could view the destruction from a safe distance. I much prefer my own kind of destruction, like the Folsom Street Fair. Screw Halloween.

Now, here in Ocean Beach, San Diego, there are no trick-or-treaters. They are probably up on the hill in Point Loma or other, greener pastures. This is my third Halloween here, and I have never had – oh, what’s that? A knock on the door! Hey, I had some trick-or-treaters, for the first time in my life! Good thing I had some little hard candies from Spain in the house. They’ll go into the secondary pile for sure, but at least I had something. A little devil and a mini-SWAT guy. How totally cute. Maybe Halloween isn’t so bad, after all.

I got an email from Bill Clinton today! Bill Clinton! It was pretty cool to come home from a long day driving around Southern California in a hellish storm and see that, let me tell you.

Bill, I already sent in my ballot. Oh… you already know who I voted for? Oh, you just want me to send some money? Is that all I mean to you? Damn.

Tonight I feel pretty good about the future of the world. I think it all comes down to karma. And today, the good karma people won. Take, for instance, the Red Sox. A few days ago the evil empire (Yankees) had won three games in the series and no one in the universe thought the Red Sox had a chance in hell. But they won the next four games! Totally unbelievable. The good karma people (Sox) beat the bad karma people (Yanks.)

Yo Yankee fans, before you flip out on me, please know I really don’t care about baseball too much, but you’ve got to know the Yankees are almost universally disliked. The only people who like the Yankees are, well, people like you. It’s all fine and good to have the owner with the most money, but basically it all comes down to karma. And yo’alls bad karma just kicked in.

I had a little karma treat myself this week. I had two extra tickets to the Wilco show in L.A. next month, because when they went on sale I was so scared it would sell out immediately I called my friend Colleen from a parking lot in Atlanta and made her buy me tickets when they went on sale. But at the same time my boyfriend bought tickets, so we were covered.

I could have sold the extra tickets on ebay and made a profit with which to buy some cocktails at the show. But I know that out there, there are many people like me, people who love Wilco but maybe had class that day tickets went on sale, or didn’t think it would sell out. I sold my tickets to an uber-grateful Wilco fan in Pasadena. When he sent me his check, he included a special treat – a bootleg CD of a show on Wilco’s 2002 tour.

I can’t tell you the happiness this brought me. For one thing, this CD will bring me pleasure for years to come, while a few cocktails at a club, while pleasurable, would soon be over, with no record. I will remember the show, but not the cocktails.

So the karma police are hanging out. Sometimes they take a little break, but I think they are around right now. It’s important to acknowledge them, just as it is important to be a nice person, and to be the best person you can be. Spit lightsparks at assholes, and we can change the world.

So, after nine nights of working with the public, I think I am ready to take a little break. Nine nights of pouring wine and making cheese plates – whateves, I can handle that. But nine nights of TALKING to people? I can’t deal.

I’ve got one more night and then I am done till the next time the owners of the wine bar, my friends, go on a trip again. So I am done for a year.

Funny how everyone wants to talk to the bartender. Well, at least, the people at the bar do. The people at the tables are in a zone where they get their wine and then leave the bartender alone for a while. But the people sitting at the bar… they are in need of something to do, and often, they are staring, and trying to talk to, the bartender. Which is cool, unless the bartender (let’s just start calling the bartender “me” now) is trying to go to a table to take an order, deliver wine, make a cheese plate, polish glasses, or whatever work function I must perform at the time. I might be listening to you in sort of a freeze frame, so that as soon as you finish your sentence I can run to the next spot I must inhabit.

And the small talk, and the no-talk. The opening of mouths and the issue of meaningless babble. I am no intellectual, but mi dio, sometimes all the babble (also the weirdness in the babbling people, not as hidden as one may think) is extremely boring. Here is an example.

Last night, a very soft spoken military weirdo came in. I know he was in the military, because he told me he worked at Fort something or other near Barstow. He had been swimming, and at first he spoke of how warm the water was, but soon the train of thought turned to sharks. And sharks never left his mind the whole time he was in the bar (two glasses Pinot Noir, one cheese and olive plate.)

“I love being in the water,” he says. “Except I’m scared there might be a shark.”

“Well,” I say, “I suppose they are out there.” Thinking that would be it. Yeah, right.

Little sputterings happen everytime he can get something in between the other orders and the glass polishing. Quietly he babbles… “I always try to stay away from seals, because where there are seals, there could be sharks…. have you been to Sea World? I’d go, but I don’t want to see any sharks… if you are in the water, and see a shark, don’t splash, because the shark might think you are a wounded fish…”

And this went on and on for quite a while. When the guy left I couldn’t help it. I yelled as he was walking out, “watch out for sharks!” He nodded, solemnly.

For the most part, people are pretty cool. My venting now is sort of like the venting you hear at the airport when all the flights are delayed. Like every flight you ever took has been delayed, but of course that is not the case, it just seems like it.

After the shark guy, I was in no mood for another trying customer, but at the end of the night I got a doosie. A blond woman came in 45 minutes before closing, and talked on her cell for 20 minutes, at the bar, only coming up for air long enough to order a Cabernet tasting. When she was done, of course she wanted to talk – to me! Because people that talk at a bar on their cell phone for 20 minutes, HAVE to talk. If they don’t, they will shrivel up and die.

Anyway, Ms. Thing was waiting for a guy, and he was very late. He finally got there 10 minutes before closing, a bit buzzed, apologizing all over the place. I immediately hated him. “Can I have a glass of wine?” “SURE, I say, how about a HALF GLASS of something.” (We serve half glasses, so people can try lots of wines.) “I have been drinking HALF GLASSES all night.” He says. “Can’t I just have a FULL GLASS?” OK, asshole. Prick. Here is your fucking full glass, you fucking fuck.

Anyway, now I am done with everything and ready to go but instead, I have to sit at the end of the bar and listen to this complete nothing talk to his date. Take the shark guy, multiply him by 8000, and you will get what I am talking about. He went on, and on, and on, to his date (who was hanging on his every word, because she was a bimbo and also, desperate) about his sisters, how he got held up with one of them and that was why he was late. He talked about his business and himself and then his sisters again. He went on and on, slurring a little more as he drank some of his full glass. He wanted to take the bimbo home, which wouldn’t be too hard as she was getting all smoochy and snuggly. I wanted to scream at her – what the hell are you thinking? The guy has been talking for twenty minutes and hasn’t once asked you a question! (Right at that moment, he says to her, “so what about YOU?”)

He was vile and repulsive. You can’t get much worse than that, unless you are a peeping tom masturbator guy.

Anyway finally they got up to leave, muttering, “I think she wants to go home.” I noticed there was no tip on the bar. I was like, you mean to tell me, I just sat here for half an hour past closing listening to this drivel and he’s not even going to TIP me? I walked over to them and got the empty glasses off the bar, giving the guy a glance I only use on possible pickpocketers and small children who scream in restaurants. “Uh,” he says, stupidly, “did I pay you?” “Yes,” I say. “Did I TIP you?” “NO.” I say.

He fumbles through his wallet. He cannot find the bill he is looking for. Plus he must impress the bimbo who he is going to try to get it up for. So finally, he throws down a twenty. I pick it up. “That’s what you get for being patient,” he says. “Thank you,” I say, and lock the door behind them.

Many days have passed since I last wrote. And after this, more days will pass until I write again. One thing that has not been perfected blog-wise is how to do it without a computer. Maybe someday you will just scan things in your brain and it will automatically download to the other people’s brains. The other people could like, subscribe or something. Perhaps there will be a Google search engine, just for brains to transmit information. They could call it, Broogle.

Anyway, the reason I have not been writing is, I went to Maui, to attend my brother’s wedding and the reason I will not be writing is, I have to go to the Central Coast for work. You know, my life is pretty good sometimes. Maui was nice, but driving from winery to winery in the Santa Ynez Valley, and making money doing it, is better.

The wedding was beautiful. There were only ten of us there – the bride and groom, and eight family members. I was a bit worried that the other family would be, well, I can’t use the words weird or bizarre, because weird and bizarre are fine with me. I guess I was worried that they would be ultra suburban, uber-republican, or for the women, “frosty.” Frosty is a term I use for women that are frosted. Frosty lip-gloss, frosty toenails, everything is frosty. My other brother, Tom, sometimes consults me now on the frostiness of his prospective chicks. He understands that frostiness is good only if you plan on never speaking to the frosty one after the night in question.

Anyhow, back to the wedding. I loved Carrie’s family. Her father is a bit of a republican, but also drinks a lot of beer and is, in general, extremely mellow. Her brother is very good looking and has traveled all over the world in search of good surfing spots, and now lives in a kitchen-less ground-floor uber-space that may or may not have rats. Her mother was just incredibly nice, easy-going, and fun. Carrie’s three aunts were there as well, eccentric and talkative and entertaining. I mean that as the hugest compliment, in case they ever discover this thing. There was just the slightest tint of frost on one aunt and since we were in Maui, it was acceptable. In fact, I now realize that I, Shannon Essa, was awfully frosty there, as I took the opportunity of the island locale to apply some Lancome Juicy Tube Lip stuff in some majorly frosty color on my generally unfrosted lips.

There were seats set up in a quiet area on the grounds of the Kaanapali Beach Hotel, and a videographer, photographer, lady singer/guitar player, and the minister were all there to oversee everything. I have to say, that whole video thing sort of bugs. People need to have a few drinks in them before they are going to hula in front of a camera, dude. But whateves, it was part of the package. We sat and talked and my brother was very nervous. Finally Carrie walked up, the minister said stuff like “Huakee caakee maakee” for twenty minutes and then they were married and we could go on to the luau.

My two previous luau experiences consisted of one truly lame luau somewhere in Kauai a million years ago and the luau at the Imperial Palace Hotel in Las Vegas, which was not really lame only because of the camp value of going to a Vegas luau and the Prince impersonator who “sang” there. Both had an hour of free watered-down mai tais and nasty, inedible food. So I was not expecting much of my brother’s reception dinner at “The Feast of Lele” in Lahaina. It turned out to be a perfect way to celebrate. At this luau, you have your own table; there are five courses (with several dishes in each course), all the drinks you want, and entertainment between every course. This was the first place I saw native islanders waiting tables, which immediately endeared it to me – I’d only seen white chick servers in West Maui up to that point. The servers wore orange and yellow thingies wrapped around themselves and feathers in their hair; several had tattoos, and all had beautiful skin. It was a feast-for-the-eyes, not just Lele.

The food was pretty good two. Each course hailed from a different region – Hawaii, New Zealand, Samoa, Tahiti – we tried some new and different items like fern salad and sea beans, but also had some old standbys like pork-baked-in-a-pit and a sweet-sauced sliced steak. I asked our server, “Do they have cows in Samoa?” Our server, a neat little package of good humored wonder and fresh wine-getting efficiency, laughed, like he did pretty much every time you talked to him. “I think I asked the same thing myself,” he said. It didn’t really matter that beef may or may not be a staple of Samoa. Everyone was way too happy to fret about it. The sun went down, there was dancing and fire breathing, and spear throwing. I really, really loved the Feast of Lele.

The trip was short, but my brother and his new bride are still in Maui, alone, probably happy everyone has gone and they can be honeymooners. I am happy because his new family is one I can relate to, and will want to visit. I hope Carrie’s family feel the same way.

I love my little ‘hood but if there is one thing it lacks, it is restaurants. There are lots of taco shops, several cheap breakfast places, a couple of Mexican sit-down restaurants, three fancy white table cloth places, a crappy “American Bistro” with bad neon but a killer view, a German restaurant that scares me, and Pepe’s, which is the only place I go to with any regularity. Pepe’s has good pizza and pasta e fagioli and they let me bring my own wine with only $5 for corkage. I guess that sounds like alot of choices and now that I have listed all of them I guess the ‘hood does not really lack restaurants. It just seems to me that it does because there is not much I want to go out for.

So I was really excited when nine months ago I noticed a big sign in the window next door to my bank on Newport Street. “Coming soon – Portugalia” the sign read. A Portugese restaurant! Something new, and even better, something different! As the months went by, though, the placed stayed dark. A little downstairs area that has a bar and a few tables, two refrigerators stocked with a bit of beer, wine and soft drinks is visible from the street. But mail just collected on the floor for months and months. One day I asked some guy entering the building what was going on, and he said the guy opening the place was having trouble with permits. I guess when you open something at the beach there are extra permits, and homie had not done his research.

Finally, after all this time, I get a letter. Actually, my boyfriend gets the letter, I guess he signed some petition the guy from Portugalia needed about how his restaurant would affect parking in the area. It was a two page letter all about how the owner had really struggled for nine months to bring us, his future customers, a little taste of Portugal. He had a long drawn-out tale of woe. The letter was full of spelling typos; also, there was no coupon. Why go through all the expense of mailing that thing without a coupon?

Anyhow, Portugalia opened just under two weeks ago, and last night we went to check it out. Portugalia is not going to make it. Unless a bolt of lightening hits, there is no way.

The little bar is just a teaser as the actual restaurant is upstairs. You would never know it was there if it weren’t for the little bar. The restaurant sign is painted on the wall, but I am not sure you would know what it was all about driving by. Last night the bar was empty and dark; on the street there was a sign that said “come on up!”

We started going up the stairs. Mark was hesitating. He kept saying “are you sure?” I wanted to see what was going on up there. We walked into a little bar where a bartender, a host-person, and a server were all hanging out. The bar is tiny, the dining floor is huge. The tables and chairs all look like 1980’s desk furniture. It looks like a giant conference room with glass tables and cloth chairs. It was very dark. There are some fake grapevines here and there and murals of Portuguese villages on the wall, to try to lighten things up. The host-person said we could sit where we wanted, and we chose one of the ginormous four-tops that could easily seat eight. There were four other tables occupied and it was six P.M. Not bad for a place that no one knows about.

We got menus and the wine list. The wine list had several pages but there was nothing on them. Some were blank and some had a couple of wines listed. Why? There were three red Portuguese wines available. I decided on the mid-range one for $26. Mark said “not a good sign” and pointed to the dead flowers on the table. The server was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, and she only had five tables. The hostess-person came over. “She’s a little busy,” she said. “Can I start you with an appetizer?”

Dude. Beverage first; that is in the Service Rulebook. That would be Rule #1, in fact. “No,” I say sweetly. “But I would like to order some wine.” I give her the order and she goes off to the tiny bar where I can see quite a few bottles of red wine lined up, non of which seem to be on the “list.” She comes back. “uh, we are out of that wine, would you like to try something else?” and hands me the list with the remaining two listed red wines on it. “uh,” I say, looking at it with a furrowed brow, “what DO you have?” She points at the house wine. “We have that one! It is SO good!” Not having a lot of choice, and not being offered one of the many selections behind the bar, we go with the house wine.

The server is still running around and the owner, dressed in a suit, is delivering food. He walks like he hasn’t had a bowel movement in a while, and he is young. The server finally comes over and apologizes over and over. Turns out she is not really a server; she is a family friend. Well, that is pretty obvious because she really has absolutely no idea what she is doing. And the host and the bartender are not doing anything at all to help her cope. “Not a good sign,” my boyfriend, who manages the faculty club/restaurant at San Diego State, keeps saying.

I ask her what appetizers are good. At this point, Mark and I are not sure we are in it for the long haul. We’ll try an appetizer and then decide what to do. The server says the linguica sausage with potatoes and fava beans is good. So we order that. She runs along. All the food for the other tables is coming out and she is trying to figure out where it all goes. Not two minutes after we order our appetizer she comes over to us with two dinners. “Did you order the blah blah blah?” She says. The owner comes out, leads her to the right table. The server is apologizing loudly to everyone.

The menu consists of a few appetizers, some sandwiches, a few “Euro-Pizzas,” and several entrees. There is one entree called “a taste of Portugal” where you can choose three of the entrees; only in Mark’s menu there is a sticker over that item. The server comes over, and I ask her if “a taste of Portugal” is available. “Nope.” She says bluntly. “The kitchen couldn’t handle it.” She runs off. “After 10 days?” I say. “Not a good sign,” Mark says. “We could try a Euro-Pizza,” I say.

Our appetizer arrives. It is a plate of French fries and a few pieces of linguica on toothpicks. It tastes good, and we are starving so we eat it. I can’t understand how sausage cooked with fava beans, onions, and potatoes turned into sausage and French fries. “Not a good sign, not a good sign…” Mark comes over to sit by me so we can check out the carnage together. “This place is never going to make it.” I say.

We still have a half bottle of wine. It doesn’t taste good unless you are eating something with it. I am thinking of the Euro-Pizza for $7.95 as I am not willing to take a chance on the skewer of beef thing for $17.95. Most of the tables leave and three guys come in. Then a party of ten come in. The server is totally incapable of dealing with it. She simply, can’t deal. The owner walks through from time to time; I wish he would come over to our table – I might feel sorry for him and want to help him. But he doesn’t. A little kid, part of the 10-top, points to the wall above us. “Jesus,” he says. His daddy says, “yes, that is Jesus.” I look up.

There is a mural above us of a little fishing village. Above the ocean, a giant Jesus spreads his arms. Jesus is, strangely, blue. He has a blue face. He is the blue Jesus. Where he spreads his arms the waves are huge, like he got pissed off at the town and is sending tidal waves to wreck the village and kill all the people. “Not a good sign, for that village.” I say.

The server is trying to take an order from the three guys. They have some strange requests, like wanting diet Coke. This nearly sends the server over the edge, though I have no idea why. “Sorry!” she tells the guys. “We are out of that!” They are also out of most everything on the menu at 6:45 on a Sunday night. “Sorry!” She tells them. “We just served our last pizza!”

Ok, that was it. Mark and I decide there is only one thing to do and that is to go to Pepe’s. I go to the bathroom first, and then I look into the giant kitchen where the owner, the bartender, and the host-person are all hanging out. The owner is making a salad or something and barking orders at the other two, who are totally ignoring him. The host-person sees me, so I ask her for the check. She tells me she’ll get my server. She then goes out on the floor where the server is STILL trying to take an order from the three guys, and WAITS there to tell her to bring us our check.

“Not a good sign.” Mark says.
“This place is never going to make it.” I say.

The server comes by, sort of in a shitty mood now, and says “I’ll get your check.” But first she has to tackle the beverage order for the table of ten. We wait, and wait. I tell Mark we should just leave $30 and split. That would cover the bill and even leave more of a tip than was deserved. He wants to wait though. The server runs to the bar, gets two drinks, brings them, then runs back for two more. Rule #7 – get all your drinks, then deliver them at the same time.

Finally we get up and go to the bar where we are going to hand her the money and leave. She looks at us like we are the most horrible assholes. “I am sorry,” she sniffs. “I am the only one here.”

“No you aren’t,” I say. “There are three other people on the floor besides you.”
“I’m the only server,” she argues.
“You have to make them help you,” I say.
“You’ll never make it here like this,” Mark says, being Mr. Restaurant Manager.
“Can you tell the owner that?” she says. “He needs to hear it.”

Mark and I look at each other. “Okay,” we say. She goes into the kitchen and screams, “JASON, A COUPLE AT THE BAR WANT TO SPEAK WITH YOU.”

But Jason is delivering skewers of beef to the party of ten. I, for one, am not going to wait until he is done doing this so that I can tell him he is going to fail.

“Let’s go to Pepe’s,” Mark says.
“They are never going to make it,” I say. “Nope, they aren’t.” Mark says. We walk down the stairs, away from the blue Jesus and into the sunlight.