On Euro Dining Habits

In college, we prided ourselves on the lush habits of our “International crew”, a nice name we came up with to counteract what people really thought we were: Euro Trash. Having thus all come from cultures wherein consuming meals in front of a television was a sacrilege; meals were sort of a big deal. At the risk of being late to classes (or missing them entirely) we lingered from table to table of our favourite café, sharing Marlboro lights and clinking Bellini glasses in celebration of nothing in particular. Life was good. And more importantly subsidized.

These days, my midweek meals are more rigidly booked than Nobu and serve a distinct purpose: catching up with an old friend, going on a date, or meeting with potential clients. In short, the art of the real impromptu group meal of yore, wherein bottles upon bottles of wine are consumed and a steady stream of kisses and seating rearrangements occur, is a virtual non reality here…at least mid week.

So imagine my delight yesterday evening upon arriving at one such dinner. The night started at a Chelsea gallery opening, continued onward to drinks, and ever onward to a restaurant on whose menu I understood maybe 2 words. The point of the restaurant, like the point of the art, was that you didn’t really get the point at all. Of course one never acknowledges as much- the idea being that wherever you were, you were in familiar territory. You “act like you owned that shit” as Le Americans would say.

The best part of the night, however, was the realization that so little actually changes when you find yourself back in the Euro nook. Sure the boys have traded their Prada sneakers for driving shoes, and we’ve traded our sequined tops for subdued cocktail dresses, but the necessary elements are always there. In due form:

1) The overpriced menu that makes the $40 penne suddenly seem like a steal
2) The uncannily cozy setting- the chairs all being so close together that you have to wait for one of the (frequent) group cigarette breaks to excuse yourself to the ladies room
3) A group of 8 or more, augmented by friends who happen to be in the neighborhood and continue to pop by well into midnight
4) The fact that you’re actually having dinner at midnight…on a weeknight (who needs sleep?)
5) Not one drop of fucking conversation on “the markets” (more importantly, who really needs to work?)
6) The fact that, inevitably, someone at your table will see someone they know and a hearty “Caaaaaaarla, come stai???” will be heard over the din of 4 tables
7) That at any given point, you will hear 7 languages being slung across the table, often genuinely, but at times competitively in an effort to illustrate superior worldliness
8) That by the end of the night, you will know where everyone at the table has vacationed in the last 10 years
9) That by the end of night, you will have received approximately 4 marriage proposals, 3 of them “jokingly” green card related

As for me, dear readers, I realized I’ve been off my form for a while. I’m certainly a pro at cocktail dresses and overpriced pennes, and I’m actually rather leaning toward quitting my job in exchange for sharing a little American citizenship. But if I’m really going to get back into the swing of things I’ll need to brush up on my 4 languages (As a general rule if you speak less than 5 they’d better be FLAWLESS), meet some I-banker turned coconut grower next week on vacation (interesting-slash-inspiring vacation related fodder) and start drinking at noon. Though something tells me I’m not really going to have a problem with that last bit.