Bar & Restaurant Reviews

When wielded properly, denial can be a form of foreplay. This is the first thought through my head when with a wicked smile C. asks me what I want to do that night. Mind you, I'd not seen her for three long months — which ought to be enough foreplay for any reasonable person — and I'd been making my intentions for that night (and afternoon and remainder of the car ride) obvious at every stoplight and straight stretch of freeway. Yet here she is, asking for it, and if she wants to play hardball, hardball it is. I'm in town on business for five whole days and knowing I have nowhere to sleep except her bed makes me bold. Dress up when we get home, I tell her, because we are going out.

As hot and sexy as it'd be to hit a fancy restaurant the first night I'm in town and have a long, drawn-out meal of many courses — each more euphemistic than the last — I know myself, dear reader; I am just a man. The torment of prolonging the inevitable is sweet indeed but I'm not trying to win any medals here, not tonight, not after three months. I know that the evening's real main course has just emerged freshly-showered from the bathroom, in a tight turtleneck sweater and sharkskin miniskirt, a look of innocence upon her face. Ready to go? she asks and bends in half at the waist to adjust her heels. Hardball it is.

Golden Boy is an unassuming by-the-slice pizza place in Northbeach, perfect for late-night beer-ballasting. The decor brings to mind one of those 1950s mobile homes turned inside out: long and narrow, stainless steel all over. One can buy slices of their thick, crispy, perfect Sicilian from the sidewalk through a window in front but I've vowed not to be in bed that night before my parents; it's seven now and they go to bed at nine. As I pay the cabdriver she places her hand on my knee. They also live on the east coast, my libido reasons frantically, so technically it's ten there right now — but she's out of the cab before I can change my feeble, hormone-ravaged mind.

In we go, past a couple of Haight babies talking tongue studs, a rockabilly dude mooning over his Bettie Page, and a broad-shouldered guy jawing sports with the counterman. Of course we're overdressed — this place is less about ties than it is tie-dyes — but if anyone's staring I'm vastly too distracted either to notice or care. We find a couple of stools by the ice-maker in back, along a wall decorated with polaroids of regulars and smiling, healthy-looking gym-types in matching softball jerseys. She arranges herself on a stool, her legs scissoring with the sound of satin sheets, and announces she wants pepperoni on hers. And a beer. I ask in a low voice what it's worth to her, what she's willing to do for it. She drops her lids and fixes me with a look of such smoldering intensity that the hairs bristle on the back of my neck.

Over at the counter I order two with pepperoni and a pitcher of something local, take long, deep breaths. Sports Fan tells me he thinks the Giants have a shot at it this year. Bettie Page compliments me on my tie — that features an obnoxiously mournful portrait of an Irish Settler — while Rocka Billy nuzzles her neck and glowers. I smile over at C., who winks back obligingly and pats the stool next to her. Sports Fan lets out a low whistle. The counterman appears with two thick slices steaming on the end of his spatula. Same basket? he asks. I look at Sports Fan and smile.

Back at the stools our knees mesh like zipper teeth. Knives and forks in red plastic baskets, cutting the crust into bites. She taps her nails (burgandy, done that afternoon) against the counter, I tap mine against my wet mug of beer, and we chew and chew and chew. The beer is cold and good. Top yours off? Yes, please. The pizza's crispy and chewy and delicious. Another bite and more chewing. She feeds herself a pepperoni off her slice, looks at me and then sucks the tips of her fingers. I stop chewing. Static crackles. I put a hand to either side of her on the stool, lean in, drag my nose through her hair, inhaling deeply. She stops chewing. Her lips are red with pepperoni oil. We're both breathing hard. Stop. You done? Done. You? Done.

She grabs her purse and jacket while I toss the empty pitcher and silverware on the counter, wrap the rest of our slices up in their paper. They will taste excellent cold, later, after. Sports Fan leans back as we hurry past. It's a big, beautiful world, isn't it? he says. It most certainly is.

quayzar

March 7, 2003

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