A Date at Avec

Something you should know: I’m allergic to bourbon. Or at least I think I could be.  Every time I drink it - even the tiniest thimble of the stuff - I get violently ill.

Something else you should know: on the night in question I had consumed five drinks.  Bourbon drinks. Large, pain-inducing bourbon drinks.

Chloe met me at my work happy hour at Haymarket.  The event was open bar, and the kindhearted waitress kept me steadily supplied.  As the happy hour wound down, Chloe and I decided to walk over to Avec to check on the wait time.  It was early evening on a Friday, so we weren’t optimistic.

To our surprise, they had two seats open at the bar.  “You’re in luck,” they told us.  “There are two spots available at the Chef’s Table.”

I glanced over at Chloe, a tentative look on my face.  Are you good with this?  Chloe had briefly dated the then-chef at Avec.  Things had ended amicably – and some time ago – but sitting in front of him for the entire meal?  Would that get awkward?

“That’s fantastic!” Chloe replied to the hostess, unfazed.

We settled in on our bar stools, exchanging pleasantries with the chef and sous.  “Just make us whatever you want,” we told them, when it came time to order. “But definitely include the dates.”

In case I haven’t made it otherwise clear, I really love the Avec dates.  They’re probably my favorite dish in Chicago, and - at the risk of offending deep dish and Chicago dog aficionados city-wide - I maintain that they’re one of Chicago’s most iconic dishes.

Our server poured us each a glass of wine.  I took one sip and it hit me.  Fuck, I’m wasted.

Suddenly I felt the bourbon sloshing around in my empty stomach.  I felt wobbly on my bar stool, and attempted to steady myself by leaning forward onto the wooden bar, peering into the kitchen and feigning interest in the sous chef’s plating technique.

Food will help, I convinced myself, taking a bite of our first dish – a light, winter greens salad.  Immediately I knew this wasn’t going to cut it.  I excused myself to the restroom for the first time.

Chloe knew something was wrong as soon as I returned - pale, slightly sweaty, and struggling to re-mount my bar stool.

“Stomach issues,” I told her – invoking the euphemistic excuse frequently employed by my family.  While it’s true that my family members (and myself in particular) are plagued with a variety of undiagnosed gastrointestinal ailments, the “stomach issues” excuse has long been utilized to address a whole host of sins; my younger brother has bailed on three years of family vacations on this convenient pretext.

Chloe had politely left me half of the salad, and nudged the next dish toward me (you’ll have to ask her what it was). “Try it,” she encouraged. “It’s really great.”  I tried it.  I excused myself to the restroom.

When I returned Chloe looked frustrated.  In truth she looked kind of blurry, and maybe a little bit spinning, but I got the strong sense she was getting annoyed with me.

“Are you going to eat any of this?” She whispered.  “It’s kind of rude…and I’m feeling a little uncomfortable here by myself.”

I apologized profusely, and promised I was back this time for good.

And then the dates arrived.  

A lump formed in my throat.  I began to sweat in earnest.  I stared down at the precious orbs - each tightly cloaked in perfectly rendered bacon, nestled comfortably in a shallow pool of red pepper sauce; they glowed majestically, the rim of their earthenware dish forming a halo around them.

You can do this, I coached myself.  I had already offended the chefs, had certainly aggravated Chloe; but I couldn’t let the dates down.

I spooned a date onto my plate and broke off a piece of the accompanying roll.  I took a few deep breaths, resting my elbows on the bar.  Then I dropped my head into my hands, defeated.  I excused myself to the restroom.

From a distance I pictured my date, alone on the bar.  I cursed myself for abandoning it, for not cherishing it in the way it deserved.  How could something I love be so close, yet so far away?  I felt its magnetic pull, beckoning me from bathroom floor.

When I was finally able to compose myself, I returned to the dining room.  “I need to go,” I finally admitted, standing next to my bar stool, too ashamed to even look at the dates.  We got the check and I made my exit, humiliated and sad.

I’ve returned to Avec a number of times since that day, ordering dates each and every time.  What’s more, Publican Quality Meats now sells the dates and sauce to prepare at home, and I’ve taken full advantage - purchasing an irrational number of dates for every dinner party and family function.  

And yet, I can’t get the image of that single, lonely date out of my mind.  The one I left behind, the one that got away.

Postscript: On the way home that night I got into an (um, purely hypothetical) argument with my cab driver over whether puking out of the window of the cab constitutes puking in the cab (and thus incurs the $200 cleaning fee).  The cab driver - unconvinced by either practical or statutory construction arguments - enlisted the help of a Chicago police officer to settle the dispute.  The police officer sided with me (LAWYERED).  I do not believe this established binding precedent, however, and don’t recommend relying on it in the future.