Tonight John and I went to dinner
at the River's Edge, Tuscan Grill to celebrate my birthday – he was out of town
for it last Sunday. The restaurant juts out over Guadalupe River, which after
our week of rains, is gorgeously swollen and wide. To our delight, silver, grey
and blue clouds obscured the sun so the light was soft and easy on the eyes.
I
was thrilled to see a ginger-sesame salad with bean sprouts, Napa cabbage, etc.
on the menu, because I have not been able to purchase bean sprouts in the two
markets I frequent. When I asked the produce managers, they both said "We
don't carry them anymore, they go bad too fast."
This
is a major hardship for me, who craves all things Asian, especially in times of
stress. It's true, even in California I
had a hard time finding really fresh, crisp sprouts and when I did I celebrated
– the white shoot, the firm green mung bean. Yum!
So
I asked our darling young waiter if it was true, were there really bean sprouts in the salad? And if
so, could I talk to the chef and find out about his source? Could I perhaps
purchase bean sprouts directly from the restaurant?
He
looked at me as if I was crazy but said he would find out.
The
only California Chardonnay on the wine list turned out to be too oaky for my taste
and not nearly as good as the Kendall Jackson reserve I have at home. But, oh
well.
John
ordered a steak that was supposed to come with a side of veggies. We drank our wine, admired the view and
waited for bread, which never came. A
different waiter brought our meals. No
bean sprouts in my salad. John got a big
square plate with a steak on it and a side dish of zucchini and yellow squash
swimming in a garlic cream sauce.
"May
we get some bread?" I asked the new waiter.
"It's
in the oven, almost done," he replied.
A
while later our waiter returned. By now I'd eaten about a third of my salad and
John had made headway into his steak.
"You're
right," the waiter said. "The owner's here. His wife ordered the
salad last week and asked why there were no bean sprouts."
"Because
we live in a bean sprout free zone!" I replied. "The markets don't
carry them." He didn't know quite
what to say to that. "May we get
some bread?" I asked. He left and
I said to John, "Maybe I should become the Bean Sprout Lady of Kerrville.
Certainly there's a need. Think of the health food stores and Chinese
Restaurants." But then I thought about
my kitchen full of cat and dog hair, and this week, "little anty
things" as John calls them, crawling all over the sink. They're little teeny ants which he says will
go back outside once the ground dries up. There's no way the health department
would give me a license to grow bean sprouts for sale. Still, I might just
start sprouting beans for my own use. After all, we have a whole truck garden
growing in our patio . . .
The
waiter returned with a little basket of bread. "I'm sorry but there's no
butter. Well, there's butter but we're out of ramekins."
The
bread was good, real sour dough with a crisp crust and warm soft center. I tore
of a chunk and shoved it into my mouth.
When he brought take-home containers and proceeded to box our dinners at
an adjacent table, I made sure to not let him take the bread away. I opened one
of the containers and tucked it into a corner.
When
we left the restaurant, the sun was just setting. A sliver of orange appeared
over the river. John drove us a little ways down Guadalupe Street until we came
to a small dam. "Stop here!" I said and opened the window. The sound
of rushing water filled the car.
I
noticed pretty white wildflowers, long stalks with six pointed petals. I got
out of the car and picked one. I brought it back into the car to look at.
"We
have those growing in the side yard," John said referring to the vacant
lot next to our house. I don't remember seeing them. I got out and picked four
more. He poured bottled water on a
napkin and wrapped it around the stalks.
Next
to the dam is a little park with a path along the river. "The best time to
come here is between nine and ten o'clock at night John said." I have no desire to be out a after dark, but I
did think about asking my writing teacher to come here with me after class
Tuesday, because it's only a block from where we meet. I wonder if I'll remember to ask her.
John
dropped me off at home and went to Azul to listen to music and analyze the
handwriting of one of the waitresses. I was
bummed out when I found out the Laker game wouldn't start for another hour. I'm so sleepy, how will I stay awake?
I
trimmed the wildflowers and stuck them in a tall shot glass. Then,
putting the food away, I opened one
of the containers and found the bread. I
spread butter on it and stood in our little rented kitchen watching teeny tiny
ants meander over the Formica counter top. The bread tasted like San Francisco.
Delicious.
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