Bistro

Waiting for a Friend

Past the Russian Embassy among Georgetown eateries, bistros and art galleries along lower Wisconsin Avenue where it dipped down the hill from the National Cathedral toward its intersection with crowded M Street, were places that offered havens of intimacy by their small scale.

It did not take much forethought to duck into one, away from crowds of pedestrian tourists and locals sauntering along ancient brick sidewalks in the warm evening of early autumn, and to disappear from public view for an hour or two out of the night air.

The menus in most were specialized, and the wine sophisticated with offerings varied and complex, if expensive, even among a community of pricey local entertainment.

A block or two away, Harvard University had maintained the Library and grounds at Dumbarton Oaks, an old mansion with formal gardens, where the student of horticulture might go to study. The Victorian necropolis of Oak Hill a short walk to the east held the mortal remains of a prior and long-forgotten age of Georgetown residents.

On a corner stood the Georgetown Branch of the Public Library, and its exclusive top floor collection of Washingtoniana, and records most recently focused on the lives of Georgetown slaves and prominent residents of color.

There had been cupcake shops near the canal on M Street, and not a five minute walk from Wisconsin Avenue, with outdoor lines of pedestrians stretching down the block awaiting service and a chance for an expensive latte’ and lavish take-out cupcake.

A short stroll farther along M Street, and close to the sidewalk and flanking bars, was the oldest stone house in Georgetown. It was managed by the National Park Service, and always featured a Black docent to explain her own family history of slavery to visitors, although the stone house had not been owned or inhabited by slaves.

There were a few disposable hours between the end of the final reception at the French Embassy and the early evening hour when traffic cleared enough to make the drive back to Northern Virginia efficient without becoming mired in rush hour traffic.

He had at first felt slightly guilty after agreeing to meet someone at the small restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, but that uneasiness quickly passed.

There had been a side street not far from the Dumbarton Estate and the Cemetery where he found a convenient parking place. While attending the French Wine Society Tenth Year Celebration, he had parked in Georgetown Medical Center garage on Reservoir Avenue but the walk to the bistro was too far.

LeBis had been one of three that had been suggested for a bite to eat before the return trip to that rural Virginia farm where he was working harvest.

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He looked up at the sign above, and the street number on an outdoor umbrella where a few tables were set for customers just inside a wrought iron fence where restaurant patrons could watch the crowds walking past.

Noting that the address on the storefront matched the index card he held in hand, he stepped toward the door and pushed open the door.

The place was small, small enough to survey the dozen tables and to the right, the bar with its curtain of inverted wine glasses just above the burnished hardwood surface.

An elegant maitre’d approached him, nodding with approval when he responded to his options as to where he would dine.

“Thanks: I’m meeting someone…” he replied, scanning the crowd.

There was seating before him although the place was filling up. Most diners would arrive later that Wednesday night in October. There were more exclusive settings down and upstairs, and those with additional discreteness and privacy piqued his curiosity.

In the dim light, he spotted someone vaguely familiar from where she sat alone, the highlights glistening in her hair caught in the overhead track lighting as her head moved slightly. With her back to the entrance, it might be her.

* * *