Breaking Bread in Pandemic Land

New York, New York
I won't go back
Indelible reminder of the steel I lack
I gave you seven years
What did you give me back?
A jaw-grind disposition to a panic attack.

I was reminded of this lyric from Soul Coughing last night.

It was the family's first dinner in a real restaurant since the lockdown. Surreal doesn't even begin to describe it. While the patrons were all sans masque, the entire staff from the greeter to the bartender to the cooks and valet were all wearing the PPE, like a new medical-themed restaurant had opened in our usual restaurant's place.

I pictured diners ordering cocktails with names like The Perfect Prescription, The Reviver, or inversely, The Flatliner. No doubt some mixologist would make something with a drop of some homemade tincture to resemble laudanum and then add a tobacco leaf garnish. And of course the food menu would lean heavy carnivore, with whole rib racks and organ meats being the specialty.

If this were a different time and this restaurant existed, I'd make reservations without hesitation. But last night was so strangely dismaying, it's going to take a few more months before it sinks in.

The restaurant had raised the menu prices, too, no doubt to offset the cost of printing new single-use menus, removing furniture and barstools, and whatever sanitizing equipment they had to buy and install to meet the governor's guidelines.

In chatting with the manager, we learned that throughout the lockdown months, the restaurant did amazingly well. So much so, that the owners were embarrassed to share the monthly results with others in the restaurant group. (The restaurant group owns several places throughout L.A., ranging from beloved beachside hamburger joints to high-end seafood eateries. This particular place is mid-range in price, with an extensive wine cellar, in a section of the city that has a strong community vibe to it. In addition to helping the first responders and nurses by feeding them, and keeping a usual albeit limited menu going, they were also selling produce and meats and even toilet paper, like a makeshift grocery store. This was something a lot of restaurants were doing in town.

As a result, I now believe there is a cabal of restauranteurs who have banded together to deny us regular folks the best produce of the day. I ordered some produce boxes a few times, and wow, was I surrised at the quality. You can't get that at Whole Foods, let alone the local farmer's market.

In a poignant moment, we saw a server friend of ours, who rushed over, wanting to hug us all and realizing she couldn't. She's African American. Mid-thirties. Mother of two. Our conversation was elliptical, letting spaces and unspoken words fill in the context. Simple questions like "How is everything," held way more meaning than usual and were answered in kind. From what I gather, she is doing her best to stay positive, and also to shield her kids from too much reality. Considering how young they are, I think that's admirable. They'll have plenty of time later on to have their childhood ripped from them.

It's horrible that at this moment, human touch is denied us. Often, it's the only thing that can console or cheer. I had to make a concerted effort not to put my arm around her, and all the others who work there who know us as regulars.

One thing I will miss about the pandemic is that L.A. is infinitely more enjoyable when 70% of the population is indoors. The beaches are clear, the 405 is empty, and the people who do venture outside are all normal everyday people who aren't thirsty influencers. The last group are exploiting the Black Lives Matter protests for clout and to generate content. In that sense, they are a pox on the earth a million times worse than Covid. I hope people never forget it.