Either Joe or Helena had suggested going farther afield, exploring someplace new for lunch, up north maybe, closer to the circle. So I thought, why not the Tabard? So there we go.
We arrive twelve-fifteenish, twelve-twentyish, sans reservations. Bad move. We hear the hostess explaining probabilities of seating and wait times to a couple ahead of us, and we start planning to go across the street to the Iron Gate or whatever that restaurant is. But I ask anyway if there’s any room for a party of three. And actually there’s a likely no-show of a party of three, and she asks us to take a seat, wait maybe ten minutes. So we do.
And of course it’s the Tabard, that sitting room between the lobby and the restaurant, perfect for hanging out, except that there’s no fire roaring in the fireplace today. But it’s only about five minutes later that we get seated. Perfect.
Joe and I order glasses of pinot grigio; Helena opts for a tempranillo. Says its like a rioja. Tiffanie L. turned her on to it in Seattle.
For entrees Helena and I both get the Niçoise salad. Joe has some sort of pasta, I don’t hear exactly what he orders. For extra decadence, Joe and Helena both order dessert, and Joe and I both partake in second glasses of wine.
Joe is the sleepiest back at work.