Off-Season Hours - Dinner: Tuesday - Saturday, 5-9p
On the Menu Tonight:
- Crispy Cauliflower
- Boneless Short Ribs
- Blackened Tuna
The Crispy Cauliflower sat golden and deliberate on its porcelain square plate, each floret framed by the faint scattering of fresh parsley, as though it had just landed there by accident. The tempura batter, whisper-thin and speckled with lemon pepper, carried an almost imperceptible shimmer under the dim restaurant lights, a promise of crispness not yet broken.
Beneath, the lemon caper tartar sauce pooled like a painter's palette—creamy, dappled with the brine of capers and citrus, its tang subdued yet undeniable. To my left, the undisturbed place setting stood silent witness, an unspoken part of the tableau.
The cauliflower, though meant to be shared, began to cool in the stillness, its fleeting warmth dissipating as if reflecting the evening itself—effortful, beautiful, but missing the person for whom it was meant. The empty stool served as a quiet reminder of someone missing, the anticipation lingering in the space between bites that would go uneaten, stories left untold.
Did my phone buzz? I picked it up—she’s 35 minutes late now—and glanced at the screen. Just a reminder: order her favorite dessert to pick up on the way home. I stared at it a moment too long, the memory of those rides home slipping through the cracks of my resolve. How we’d sing along to our shared playlist, carefree and loud, or else pick at old wounds until the silence grew unbearable. The dessert always arrived at the perfect moment, a makeshift truce served on a plate. Should I place the order now? I won’t. Will I?
Lost in this torturous volley with myself, I caught the gleam of silverware from the next table. My neighbors exhaled, visibly softened as their entrees arrived—a small parade of plates met with quiet gratitude. Always a step ahead of me, they reminded me of the things I couldn’t quite grasp, their relief amplifying my own simmering envy. I stole a glance, again betraying the deep green I carried—this time envy, sharp and unrelenting, rather than inexperience.
Her Boneless Short Rib arrived in a black ceramic bowl, its earthy hues mirrored by the dim, golden light of the room. The Moroccan braising liquid, deep and glossy, pools like a small sea of amber and crimson, the warm spices releasing a subtle, almost whispering heat into the air. A ribbon of young carrot rests atop the dish, curled delicately as though frozen mid-dance, its bright color a tender contrast against the muted tones of the short rib.
The Israeli couscous risotto cradles the cuts of meat - a creamy, grainy bed that absorbs the richness of the braise. Specks of toasted pistachio and golden raisins peek through, their sweetness and crunch promising balance in every bite. The apricot yogurt, pale and satiny, clings to the edge of the plate, its tang and fruitiness softening the boldness of the spices.
A scattering of za'atar pita crunch crowns the dish, offering an audible crackle that punctuates the softness below, while the faint aroma of toasted cumin and thyme lingers in the background. This is a dish prepared with care, designed to be shared, as it no doubt will between verses these lovebirds sing of the endless song of their devotion.
The Blackened Tuna commanded attention, its seared edges darkened just enough to suggest a fleeting flirtation with flame, while the tender, ruby-hued center remained raw, almost vulnerable. Resting atop a tangle of summer vegetable lo mein noodles, the dish seemed caught between precision and abandon—each strand lightly kissed by the citrus plum vinaigrette, its sweetness just shy of cloying.
A plum and scallion slaw crowned the plate, vivid and crisp, a mosaic of colors and textures: pale green scallions, translucent slices of plum, and the delicate crunch of bean sprouts. Scattered wonton crisps framed the edges like fragmented brushstrokes, their golden arcs tempting the fork to linger.
At the edge of the dish, the soy mustard shimmered darkly, a suggestion of sharpness for those brave enough to taste it. The tuna was beautiful, balanced, as yet untouched - certainly plated a performance for an audience of one, it would most definitely serve its satisfaction not solely to its commissioner but to his belle as well.
I felt my shoulders slump—grossly out-ordered, outmaneuvered by her absence, and, yet again, betrayed by my phone. No messages. Another drink arrived, unbidden but welcome, and I turned to the appetizer. The first forkful hovered midair, caught between optimism and resignation, as if the act of eating might summon her into existence. But let me not get ahead of myself.
•••
Even in October and November, Del Mar Bar & Bistro hums with life. The patio, open to the elements in warmer months, is now shuttered; even the most valiant of standing heaters can’t tempt a New Englander to brave it this late in the year. Or so I’m told. Friday and Saturday night reservations vanish faster than I could remit. Your best bet, if you’re unprepared, is an early seating. This crowd—later, livelier—makes their reservations weeks ahead. They’re younger, if not in age, then in their evening’s enthusiasm. Inside, the dining room offers tasteful comfort, its booths and tables carefully curated for couples, double dates, and families. The pizza looked incredible. It could’ve been us.
The bar was crowded, too, but that didn’t deter the host, whose seasoned air suggested he could juggle the place blindfolded. He greeted me with polite authority, balancing his seating chart and phone calls as if they were old friends. When I asked about a table, he smiled kindly, the way you do at a child who asks if the moon can be reached by ladder, even the tallest ladder of all.
I didn’t need a table. I had one—until three nights ago. After we fought, I canceled it with all the righteous melodrama of someone who imagines immediate regret will be mistaken for bold conviction. By the time I called back, they’d given it away. They were apologetic in the way that makes you feel even worse for asking. Now I was left finagling bar seats and trying to look like I belonged.
“Walk On The Wild Side” played softly overhead as I leaned against the lovely wooden slat shelf build into the half-wall, clutching my drink. I studied the crowd. It occurred to me that some of these people might have lived that wild side once—roamed the Village, smoked with strangers, fell in love with Lou Reed in a dark club somewhere. Now, they hummed along over Caesar salads, comfortable in their nostalgia. I envied them their certainty. I’d probably see them in Ptown in March looking for something resembling Lou’s ghost.
She’d come tonight, I told myself. This fight wouldn’t be the end. I could picture her breezing in, an apology on her lips, though not before she made me squirm for a few minutes. It seemed plausible. Romantic, even. And wasn’t that better than admitting I’d shown up without so much as a text to confirm?
Two drinks and an hour later, I had a seat at the bar. Two stools, actually—perfectly placed at the bend, as if anticipating some great reconciliation. Still, it was just me. “She’s stuck in traffic,” I told the bartender, the lie rolling off my tongue with embarrassing ease. I ordered the Crispy Cauliflower, convinced that this was a noble, healthy choice despite its golden fried armor. Somewhere, a kale salad wept for my sins.
The appetizer arrived, steaming and perfect, and I eavesdropped on the couple to my right. She elbowed me in her enthusiasm, a passing breeze of apology before returning to the animated world of her husband’s stories. They laughed easily, the kind of laughter that makes you feel like an interloper. The stools suited them better, I thought. I should have ceded the space.
I lingered as long as hope allowed, each bite of cauliflower a small act of defiance. Two stools, one occupied, one waiting in vain. Finally, I settled up and left, finding the road and, eventually, the pillow. I didn’t place the dessert order. I didn’t text her.
We never found each other again, but then weakness was never her type. Nor mine, I suppose. Though I do think about the pork belly and melon from time to time. Next time, I tell myself.
•••••
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