{"id":12462,"date":"2012-12-26T15:27:37","date_gmt":"2012-12-26T20:27:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=12462"},"modified":"2012-12-26T15:31:23","modified_gmt":"2012-12-26T20:31:23","slug":"holiday-traditions-the-christmas-date","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2012\/12\/holiday-traditions-the-christmas-date\/","title":{"rendered":"Holiday Traditions: “The Christmas Date”"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Not<\/a><\/p>\n

[Scene from <\/em>A Christmas Story.\u00a0The Peking duck no longer smiles at the Old Man.]<\/em><\/p>\n

I<\/span>n 1993, The then Missus-Eventually-To-Be and I went on our first one of these, and we’ve done so every December 23rd since. (Which, yes, made 2012 the twentieth time.)<\/p>\n

That first year, we had a few things generally to celebrate, aside from the holiday itself. Eleven months before, on January 1, I’d moved sorta-kinda-ever-so-cautiously to this area, from the Richmond, VA neck of the woods, expressly to be closer to her. I didn’t move straight to this city, mind you, but to a town about forty minutes away — one with the small-town feel I was used to, and hoping to continue. I was jobless and all but flat broke then [*<\/a>], so I took as a priority the getting of work… Yet, y’know, a common downside to small towns is that most of the work to be had must be had in nearby\u00a0cities<\/em>. So I eventually scored a series of part-time\/temporary jobs down here, and by the fall was working enough that a\u00a0date<\/em>-date didn’t feel like an extravagance. Indeed, in October we’d abandoned all pretense at tentativeness and moved in together, to our first house: another thing to celebrate. And we had rich creative lives, as well, especially thanks to The METB<\/span>‘s course of studies for a Masters degree in English (“creative writing emphasis,” as the University said).<\/p>\n

So we splurged, that first year, on a meal at a splurge-worthy downtown restaurant called Chez Pierre. It was then a small, elegant, intimately lit, fireplaced and stone-walled nook of a place on the same block as the old Federal courthouse, and it was easy to love: the service was personable, the atmosphere relaxed — take as long as you want! — and the food spectacular<\/em>. (When they had to relocate a few years later, to a giant sprawling brick pile in the area known as Midtown, we never did get used to the changes; Chez Pierre finally changed hands, and then, after what was widely felt to be a slow decline, finally went out of business last year.)<\/p>\n

But — and this would become the enduring (and to me, endearing) little hook to the Christmas-date tradition — The METB did not know in advance that we’d be eating <\/em>there. She knew only that we were dressing up (if not strictly, given our circumstances, upscale<\/em>). And en route to dinner, I drove a circuitous route, expressly to keep her guessing…<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

T<\/span>he particulars have changed over the years, of course. For the last eleven years, for one thing, we’ve lived way out on the east side of town. It’s a fifteen- to twenty-minute drive hence to almost everywhere in town, where all the really nice restaurants are to be found; this rather puts a damper on the tradition of driving all around — detouring, circling blocks, doubling back, and so on — just to prolong the suspense. If I still did as much of that, we’d be gnawing on the car upholstery by the time we got to the restaurant.<\/p>\n

(This year, my only decoy action was to briefly slow down and turn on the right signal for a couple of blinks… before finally accelerating past one of our current favorite restaurants.)<\/p>\n

The character of both the restaurants and their clientele has changed, too. National chains are crowding out local independents, for starters. And — not to be all snobbish about it (hey, I wear jeans every day of the year, including to work) — almost no one really dresses up anymore, except for catered or business-related\u00a0events<\/em>. I remember one year we went waaaay the heck up to the north side of town, to a restaurant with great reviews on just about every count, including ambience. What a shock to find we were the only ones dining in a black dress and a suit-and-tie: everyone else was in colorful, casual — however “tasteful” — country-club-brunch attire. (That place, we also learned, didn’t have a bar as such, although they did have a nice selection of wine. [What? No pre-appetizer Maker’s Mark???]<\/em><\/span> I started researching new restaurants’ bar facilities in advance after that year’s shocking experience.)<\/p>\n

Deciding as a matter of principle never to deviate from the December 23rd date does add one complication: every so often, that date falls on a Sunday or Monday. (The independent, upscale restaurants which close on Sundays tend to be open Mondays, and vice-versa, but seeking reservations either of those two nights will always give you fewer choices than on any other night of the week.)<\/p>\n

That happened this year, of course, immediately eliminating from consideration our favorite place<\/a> [**<\/a>] and the one new(ish) place<\/a> I was first considering. Sometime after Thanksgiving, though, I remembered another option — an “Asian fusion” restaurant<\/a> about which The Missus and The Stepdaughter had both raved, but where I myself had never eaten. And luckily, they’d be open on Sunday night…<\/p>\n

F<\/span>or the record, our selections from the menu were:<\/p>\n