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Night 2: Tavira
I have a whole month of dinners to plan for, so I have
to decide whom I want to accompany me, and how frequently
I want to dine alone. Eating alone at a serious restaurant
isn't for everyone. Some people are uncomfortable as
the only one at a table meant for two — the discreet
removal of the other place setting, the empty chair.
It has its pleasures, though. I love to sit with a good
martini and a crossword puzzle or a book. Relieved of
the need to make conversation, I can just relax and
observe the scene, eavesdrop, watch the trays as they
glide by, engage the waiter, pick up sailors —
whatever I want.
But sometimes I will want company, marching through
Georgia as I am. But how about a twist-dining out with
a stranger? I call a friend, do some strategic networking
and I'm on the phone with Michael K., a likely companion.
We seem to share interests — he's willing to split
the bill and he speaks Portuguese. Perfect! Tavira,
one of the area's few Portuguese restaurants, is on
my list.
I have always loved the Portuguese language, and not
just because the people I've usually heard speaking
it were Brazilian — naked, nubile and on a beach. Having
lived for a while near Provincetown, Massachusetts,
I am familiar with the Portuguese community who flocked
there years ago to fish. Portuguese seems a fraternal
twin to Spanish, slower, more languid, without the clip.
I have promised Michael free reign to show off, and
he is fluent.
Tavira is a very pretty restaurant in a very queer
location, in the basement of an office building on Connecticut
Avenue in Chevy Chase. On a rainy Friday night, trying
locked doors and padding through the empty halls, we
feel more like cat burglars than eager diners. Tavira's
signage needs some upgrading. Once we find the place
— cozy, welcoming — it's easy to settle in.
We have a few caipirinhas, the Brazilian's favorite
libation of cane liquor, sugar and lime. Fluency increases.
Victor, our obliging waiter, explains that the word
"caipirinha" literally means "little
country" in Portuguese. The drink is a country
mouse, the anti-martini. But it's just as effective.
Michael and Victor are deep in conversation. From my
Romance language background (I speak French like a high-functioning
cretin) I can tell they're discussing the menu, Michael's
Brazilian ex-girlfriend (passion is better than Berlitz)
and the relative merits of beaches outside Sao Paolo.
Do I detect a twinge of Chinese waiter syndrome? Are
they, um, discussing me?
When it's time to order, Victor stands and recites
the specials. They are so long and so complicated, it
seems he should have a lectern. But they all sound luscious.
Michael knows a lot of the menu and we are soon sharing
plates of dainties, then platters of fabulous decadence:
squids, clams, sausage, lobster, garlic, eggs, mussels,
beefsteak. The room is filling, but not crowded. It
is quiet enough to converse, but loud enough not to
be overheard. Michael is great company, Victor comps
us some Fonseca, a rich syrupy port. Back to restaurant list
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