I usually invest about 12 seconds in choosing my attire. My office outfit consists of cargo shorts, the first odor-free T-shirt my hand touches when I reach into the closet, and faded black, low-top Chuck Taylors.
So I'm no fashion plate, but when it's time to attend a wedding, appear on TV or visit a fancy restaurant, I attempt to look presentable. Bern's definitely qualifies as a swank eatery, and that's where I went on a recent Sunday. I had all afternoon to strategize my apparel but didn't give it much thought until about 4:30 p.m., a half hour before I was scheduled to meet my former neighbor Mike and my current neighbor Katie so the three of us could stroll down to the legendary steakhouse.
Our plan was to enjoy one of Bern's famed, semi-secret $10 steak sandwiches. I was stoked. Problem was, all the shirts I felt like wearing looked like they'd spent the past three months stuffed in someone's front pocket. And I was in between ironing equipment. Shit. I filled another wine glass, took a big gulp and opted for the blue button-down with the big collar. Bad decision. Every time I wear the damn thing I spend all evening wondering if it's too poofy and walk around feeling about as sexy as Larry Fine of the Three Stooges. But it was my only viable option at crunch time.
The walk from the apartment to Bern's wasn't too bad. We arrived at the famed eatery with minimal sweat. Well, except for Katie. She sweats more than most. She's an abnormal sweater. Seriously, she has a doctor's note to prove it and everything.
"And what may I get for you?" asked the suave bartender with the French-Canadian accent and exotic looks. Even though I'd never been to Bern's, I knew the drill: Sit at the bar and order a steak sandwich; don't ask for a menu, because it's not on there. We were seated at the corner of the bar, with Katie between Mike and me.
Fans of French New Wave films might say it looked like a scene from Jules and Jim. Seated to my right was a woman I'll call Meredith, because if I use her real name I won't be able to rave about how she's this gorgeous blonde who looks like a cross between Ellen Barkin and Kate Hudson. Meredith had her elbow on the table; her left hand propped up her pretty head while the guy next to her yammered on and on about his business accomplishments.
"That poor thing," Katie whispered to me as she watched Meredith feigning interest. The bartender somehow picked up on what we were saying and let out a soft chuckle. I took another gulp of my Jameson and soda and decided to explore the premises before the food arrived.
"The bathroom is upstairs to the right," Mike said.
"If I'm not back in five minutes send out a search party," I shot back, "I get lost easily."
The most impressive aspect of the Bern's bathroom is the paper towels that bear the restaurant's logo. They'd probably hold up in a washing machine better than most of my shirts. "I'm going to grab some before we leave," I told Katie, "Remember to remind me."
But she didn't, and I forgot.
Our food arrived, and it was the best $10 I never spent (Mike picked up the tab): a slice of velvety beef with a delicious veggie medley to complement it. Mike and Katie chose french fries as their side, and they were the best fries I've ever had. I know this because I munched on Katie's while we politely waited for her to return from the restroom before tearing into our beautiful slabs of seared bovine flesh.
My appetite sated, I focused my attention on Meredith, who had just bade farewell to the man seated next to her. "I couldn't help but overhear that guy blabbering at you for the last 30 minutes," I told her. "Were you on the date from hell, or did the guy just sit down next to you and decide to ruin your meal?"
"Date from hell," Meredith said with a devilishly adorable smile that had me completely smitten — and second-guessing my wardrobe selection. We chatted. I got her laughing. Meredith joined me, Mike and Katie back at the Tiny Tap Tavern but she seemed more interested in Katie — who admittedly was looking quite adorable herself in her black polka-dot dress — than Mike or I.
"I think I would respect a guy if he looked me in the eye and said 'I want to fuck you,'" Meredith said in response to a story Mike told. She was sitting to my right. If I had a pair I would've turned to her and spoke those exact words. But I didn't. Not today. It's this damn blue shirt. Kills my confidence. I went home intent on burning it.
Bern's Steak House, 1208 S. Howard Ave., Tampa, 813-251-2421.
This article appears in Jun 18-24, 2008.