Sometimes it comes to pass that Leon is simply not invited to lunch. Instead, he roams the house, speaking in dark tones of the decidedly minor pleasures to be wrought from the marriage of the peanut butter with the jelly. Suffice it to say that when this happens he is not pleased.
I hate to displease Leon—and not just because, when I ditch him, he tends to moodily take former lovers out to eat and then enjoy a long, suspiciously deep nap upon returning home. But sometimes a girl just has to put on a pretty flowered dress, topple onto way-high shoes, freshen her lipstick and meet another high-heeled lipsticked girl in a pretty flowered dress for a plate of fried Spanish potatoes iced down with a couple of lovely yummy cocktails on a hot spring afternoon.
Wearing yellow heels, the Chestnut Queen tottered into Bravas‘ Healdsburg backyard resplendent in an apple green dress with a light white and orange wrap. The server complimented her, I complimented her, she and the server remarked that my outfit complemented her, and then they both complimented me. Things were off to a smashing start.
And smashing they stayed, because this is Bravas Bar de Tapas, the newest Stark property, housed in the former Ravenous bungalow. The backyard has been spruced up, the interior has gone stone-cold Spanish Modern, and the outdoor bar is devoted to hot jámon and cold alcohol. In a word: Splendid.
Perhaps it’s just me, but if you say “potatoes” and I say “patatas,” I’ve suddenly cut thousands of calories from a plate of the tuber fried, enlivened with fresh tomato sauce, and sluiced in homemade aioli ($6). So I like to say it often. The Chestnut Queen sagely agreed. She also agreed to crispy chicken skin thighs ($10), roasted octopus ($16), and a refreshing escarole salad ($8). Cocktails must be served! CQ had the punny Seville-ian (tequila, sherry, citrus, agave; $11) and I the Dingo (vodka, aperol, sherry; $11). OK, we each had two.
When our first glasses arrived, CQ regaled with her Tom Waits Story and her Little Known Bridges Boy Story. I was enthralled. I had potatoes and patatas and since CQ paid the aioli little mind, I had an awful lot of that. One crispy-skinned thigh, poof! Half of an evil, oily, delicious link of octopus leg, black with roasting—poof! Salad, of course. Patatas, god yes.
Another round, dear server! Lipstick reapplied, I pat dry the slight lisp of bovine perspiration on my upper lip. I parry, offering the Chestnut Queen my Phoenix From the Ashes Story for dissection as well as another chapter of my I Love Leon Story, a perennial fave. We fall to it.
Dessert? Discussed and rejected in favor of another long round of active satisfaction in the outdoor setting, that shady tree, this last alluring bit of nut and cheese and a single green leaf on the salad plate.
Abruptly, I’m done. CQ is nowhere near to exhausting her charm and I didn’t ask way enough questions during the Tom Waits Story, but I’m ready to leave this arcadia for another one.
Once home, I shake Leon awake, anxious to tell him how much I missed him during lunch.