Last night, dinner at Winthrop lasted longer than expected in the little English-style restaurant with its large couches, stained glass paintings, soft music and the tinkling of liqueur glasses. This place has the juiciest salmon that the stern waitress dresses with a stinging slice of lime and the sharpest vodka that the bartender serves with sparkly ice. Only so the stained glass paintings can splash the most subtle colours on the white meat on your plate and shoot streams of light through your pungent Ketel One.
Some restaurants are made just for the New England weather. The drapes, sometimes falling over the window and sometimes tied up in big fluffs to the sides, open out onto little gardens that are mostly drenched in a light, constant rain or a thick mist. The lights inside are turned down to just the right brightness to allow you to see the million little droplets in the air outside. And when it is darker, you see your own reflection on the glass, drenched in the rain outside – suddenly a lost entity stuck in the glass and not sure who is watching who and from where.
Conversations on such evenings slip and slide from one to the other as the soft meats are sliced by shiny forks and drinks burn down throats. Everything from Maupassant to gardening is a topic that is dealt with enthusiastically. And when nothing “significant” remains to be addressed, someone will bring up a silly conversation they just overheard from the next table.
Stepping out into the cold night is always a treat. There is either a cold breeze blowing or there is a drizzle so mild, one needs to check if it’s a thick mist or rain. In the orange glow of the buzzing street lamps, they fall like countless tiny snowflakes of the night, twinkling and settling on hair and clothes alike. The streets are almost completely deserted and footsteps sound a lot more loud and scrunchy on wet gravel.

And through all of this, admiration, respect, adoration and love. And a thorough professional of a woman old enough to give advice yet young enough to love the sparkle of glass and the feel of furry flip-flops on her feet.

Now that I’ve written this, I am reminded of the striking similarity this bears to another dinner we had at a quaint restaurant in Burlington. Conversations soaked in good wine, sauces, seafood and the golden light of a setting sun. A green, bright day setting into a clear, deep blue night.
And again, admiration, respect, adoration and love. And a wine connoisseur of a man old enough to give advice yet young enough to wink with a sparkle in his eye and remember a Japanese maple from years ago.

And us with our love for them.