A Night on the Town....

I sit at the 15-seat marbled bar, alone. The ponytailed male bartender, draped in all black, offers me a wine suggestion. I take it, he pours and then paces desperately, trying to find a way to occupy time until last call.
It is like a ghost town --or Christmas Eve or the day after Valentine's Day. No one is out. The faded sconces hanging overhead cast a dull haze as the light intertwines with cigarette smoke sifting from the couple at the other end of the bar.
I sit next to the service well, where every now and then chatter from the printer tells the bartender what he needs to make for one of the cute, college-aged female waitresses. These girls amble to their tables, inform their guests of tonight's chef's specials and reconvene by the computer terminal, where they talk about the weekend -- the prodigious amounts of alcohol each consumed, the hangovers that lasted all Sunday, and who got fired from the restaurant for oversleeping their brunch shift.
After all, it's a Monday and the economy is slow as hell. Just as the servers do for their customers, the bartender tells me the featured dishes for the night, some by-the-glass wines that would compliment each, and I nod in appreciation, take his recommendation and wait patiently for my meal.
A moment later, the middle-aged manager, dressed in a three-piece suit, walks over and asks his bartender for a taste of the new Napa Valley cabernet that will soon be added to their wine list. He pours one for the manager -- and one for me-- and I thank him with a nod. I swirl the glass, tilt my head and drain the oaky, succulent red. Maybe I should have ordered this instead. I have always had a love affair with Napa Valley cabernets.
My food arrives. The seared yellow-fin tuna is a purple-tinted red, attesting to its freshness. It's served over an ordinary, cold noodle salad. But the tuna is good. In addition, I order some bruschetta of artichoke hearts and heirloom tomatoes, which has a celestial balance of acid from the balsamic vinegar and sweetness from the perfectly ripe heirlooms.
This is undoubtedly the best food I have experienced in Virginia since I arrived. So I sit and enjoy the rest of my wine with a full belly and a slight buzz. As always, I contemplate dessert, though I will most likely order a 10-year tawny port, or perhaps an 18-year scotch.
A year ago, I moved here from Atlanta, home of Top Chef's runner-up Richard Blais, Iron Chef America competitor Kevin Rathbun, several five-star restaurants and a multitude of James Beard nominees. Tom Coliccio recently opened a restaurant there, and it is a town that eats out more than anyplace else per-capita in the U.S. In Atlanta, I could walk out my office onto Peachtree Street and there would be 10 top-notch restaurants within a block in any direction. So, I look at the quality of restaurants here, and the quality of chefs here, and the access to the finest ingredients and I have incredible hope.
I also look at the economy and how the population is eating out less and less, and how people are attempting to save and cope. One thing that won't change, assuming we support them, is the quality of food available from our restaurants, and the access to wonderful ingredients that line our shores and farms. Visit the local chefs! Rejoice in the passion of what they are doing! It will be well worth it.
***
Just so you know ... I went with the 10-year tawny port. As I wound down a great evening, by myself, and as I glanced over the empty dining room I wondered what will happen if things don't change. What if people don't start going out to eat more? What if the economy doesn't change? I don't want to find out.
***
The girls sweep their sections and the bartender cleans his bar mats and polishes the remaining glasses that were used during the night's service. They close down, leaving kitchen and dining room ready for service the next morning. Knives are polished, napkins are folded and salt and pepper shakers are filled. It didn't take much work since this 120-seat restaurant only did 25 covers tonight. The chef, still in his whites, wanders out to the bar, unties his apron and asks for some Gran Marnier. The bartender obliges, pouring it into a snifter, and pours himself one as well.
"Thanks, Barkeep," he says. "I hope you were busier than the kitchen tonight."
The bartender glances over the empty bar, except for me. He hoists his glass, makes eye contact with me, and his chef, and we raise our glasses to meet his. "Let's try it again tomorrow."
----Christopher C. Hill is manager of Baxter's, a restaurant and sports lounge on Granby Street in