Apparently, I was the only person in Tampa Bay last Friday who was completely clueless about Tropical Storm Barry. My understanding was that we might get some much-needed rain — not the kind of downpour that soaks you to the bone in a matter of seconds, floods the streets, uproots shrubbery and makes you wish you had never left the sofa.
I should have known better. Just as I should have known what exactly is in pâté before ordering some at the swanky Ceviche Tapas Bar in downtown St. Pete. To make matters worse, I also recommended it for the pretty girl who was nursing a hangover and visiting from Dallas, Texas, where she subsists on the kind of cuisine that is easy to pronounce and guaranteed to please — or at least not offend.
When I left my place in South Tampa around 4:30 p.m. and drove toward the Howard Frankland, it was sunny outside. I figured the rains were many hours away and that St. Pete's monthly First Friday bash would enliven the streets of downtown. Nearby, A Taste of Pinellas would be kicking off at Vinoy Park. Headliner Peter Frampton would wow the crowd with a little help from his trusty "talk box." Good times would be had by all.
The original plan had everyone meeting for a glass or two of wine — no food — at the Ceviche Tapas Bar and Restaurant that occupies the first floor and basement of the Ponce de Leon Hotel. Next, we would stroll down Central Avenue and maybe grab a slice of pizza. When we were drunk enough to enjoy it, we would go over to Vinoy and hear Frampton ask "Do You Feel Like I Do?"
Of course, that's not exactly what happened.
I finally made it through traffic and arrived in downtown St. Pete around 5:15 p.m. As the wind whipped rain against my face, I realized plans had changed. I was wet and chilly at the Ceviche bar drinking a glass of red called Vino Mayor Crianza ($8) when I learned First Friday and A Taste of Pinellas had been cancelled on account of Barry.
My buddy Tommy met me at Ceviche within a few minutes. We drank our wine and watched one soaked person after another scamper up the stairs and take a seat either at the bar or at one of the many tables. People snacked on stuff like olives, exotic cheeses and dried ham. By the time my brother and his girlfriend and her friend, The Girl from Texas, finally arrived, the bar was too full to find a seat so we opted for the only table available.
We landed on the patio. A mere plastic awning separated us from the elements. I sat right in front of a flap that let just enough wind through to get up my shorts and freeze my ass. The crowd was mostly business types, but the table to my right was a family packing a wild 3-year-old hell-bent on driving me insane by bashing his fork against anything that would create the most noise.
I needed another drink. The guys at the table decided to split a bottle of Vino Mayor Crianza ($29). The women ordered sodas because they were hurting from the night before. Then they decided they wanted to eat. Before the menus I arrived, I knew it was going to be a fiasco.
"Do they have one in English?" blurted my brother when he got his.
I took a look and started having Spanish class flashbacks. My heartbeat quickened as I recalled failing for the third time and having to pay out-of-state tuition to take the class again in order to finally earn a bachelor of arts after six years of plugging away. To this day, I never actually passed Spanish II. I scored a 56 on my final exam. My professor took pity on me, put a line through the 56 and wrote 74.
"What's pate?" the Girl from Texas asked, pronouncing the word like "gate."
"You mean pâté?" I responded.
"Yeah, this," she said, pointing to the menu. "What is it?"
Now, I could have been smart and simply told her I wasn't sure. But, like I said before, she was pretty, so I wanted to impress her with my nonexistent culinary knowledge.
"It's a spread," I said. "You know, like hummus."
Tommy looked at me and shook his head. The Girl from Texas and I ordered the same thing. Our dishes came with a piece of toast covered in a generous helping of slimy brown pâté.
"Maybe I should tell you after you eat," Tommy said. "But do you know what pâté is?"
I nodded my head like I actually knew. And then it dawned on me. Pâté was not anything like hummus.
"It's ground-up liver," Tommy said. But I don't think the Girl from Texas heard him.
I ate mine first, pretending to enjoy it but secretly finding it disgusting. I probably should have confessed that it didn't taste anything like hummus. The pretty girl from Texas took one bite, looked like she was about to cry and spit it back in here napkin. She was in a miserable mood the rest of the night.
This article appears in Jun 6-12, 2007.