I was invited to this little fete on behalf of my roommate who attended Smith College, which is considered a sister school to the holy trinity and its elite cousins. At the door we were invited to make name tags. Therefore, I was the girl from "Go Blue" as many strangers commented when they examined my name tag. Subsequently, I engaged in 40-50 seconds of small talk about the 'rough season' and how we have a 'new coach'.
Inside, the bar was packed by the finest academic hoi polloi that Phoenix has to offer or, at least, the onces who cared to boast about it with sharpie-d on name tags inside an ultra-lounge attached to the mall. Looking around, I spotted Noreen, talking to a couple who looked tame enough but a bit boring. I introduced myself and we transitioned out toward the bar. On the way, Noreen informed me that a glass of wine was $12 ( I figured it was probably Beringer or something equally as nasty and made a mental decision to order well vodka and tonic instead) and that she had begun talking to that tame looking couple on the couch because yet another needy brown man was stalking her. Noreen happens to be Pakistani and is constantly under the reproachful eye of eligible brown men in the greater Phoenix area. Apparently, this character had been concerned that she had 'no friends' and was new to the area, trapped in a crowded bar and unable to relate to the WASPy masses at hand.
Having ordered my well vodka ( a safe bet at $6.50) I began to purvey the faces in the room and wonder: why did people come here? For myself, it was a combination of entertainment and the anticipation of meeting amusing characters. Some, perhaps, of the business variety, were here to network. Some, like the lingering brown man, for a relationship. But in this desert hodgepodge I suppose many of these people were looking for a piece of their pasts, for a chance to play 'who do you know', for slightly different versions of themselves. Or, at the very least, a swing at a one night stand.
To my left I noticed that squat looking man wearing glasses had engaged noreen and erin, our friend who intended Trinity, in conversation. next to him stood a tall, thin woman, her hair bleached with a fringe of bangs. She had about four inches on the man. It took me a moment to put the picture together (this is what well drinks can do to you), but I realized that she would momentarily look warily at the man before reengaging in a conversation that only loosely held her attention. When she brushed past him to signal that she was getting another glass of merlot, I realized they were probably married (well, ok, the matching last names on their name tags did tip me off).
They were the Nuris. Marissa and Larry Nuri. Larry went to Cornell and Marissa did not wear her education on her sleeve. I made a point to smile at her, as if to say, it's ok if you are not Ivy I am also a pariah, but she did not want an ally. Not that she really wanted an enemy either. In fact, the face I thought was wary was actually turning into one of relief. The moment I began talking to Larry really hit the nail in the coffin, so to speak.
After the initial introduction which involved the good old repartee about Michigan's Bad News Bears football season, Larry and I ran off on a tangent about Oldtown (where I currently reside). I bluntly revealed that I enjoyed my proximity to the bars and nightlife.
"my wife and I, " he signaled, pointing to Marissa who was expressionless in conversation, "you see she's over there, that tall woman- we used to go to clubs and bars but now... eh " he stopped, looked up as if he was searching for something profound, "but now, we're getting older. We'll usually go for a later dinner and by the time its over we go home." He then proceeded to describe to me about how he and his wife are foodies, lovers of food and fine dining.
"if you really want a lot of bang for your buck there's this little place, " he informed me ( this segment of the conversation followed a historical documentation about how Marissa has been going to the same club, now called Forbidden, for four decades), "It's right behind that new hotel- The W, that's it- the restaurant is called fusion."
He discussed the various entrees and pricings ( i won't bore you with the details) and I began to see how he and his wife might have been married out of mutual desperation: she had no desire to talk, he had no desire to listen. But, as luck would have it, they both enjoyed fine dining.
I do not remember specifically how the conversation ended, but it did end with a reminder to try Fusion. We returned Larry Nuri to his wife, probably to her disdain, and wandered to another corner of the bar. About an hour later, when we exited, the brown man reappeared and reminded Noreen that he had her card. "email me!" she cried as we scuttled off into the depths of the parking garage.
Two evenings later, Saturday night, Erin, Noreen, and I had made plans to go the W and have dinner at the sushi bar attached to the hotel. However, when we arrived, there was of course an hour and a half wait. It was 9 pm so we decided to go elsewhere to eat before heading to the W bar. I remembered Larry's suggestion and mentioned to my friends that we ought to try Fusion.
It had begun to sprinkle, as we entered the small restaurant not 500 feet from the hotel. As we entered, I remembered that Larry had mentioned something about how he and his wife were going to celebrate their anniversary there this weekend, but could not remember which night.
We entered the restaurant. Though it had a hip name, the inside looked a washed up dining room in an elderly woman's home. The walls were seafoam and the tables looked like they had been purchased at Art Van's Furniture outlet. No music played and the lighting yellowed above us. It was all but empty, at 9 pm, with the exception of... the Nuris. Larry Nuri scoped us out with hawk-like reflex and, before we could turn to seemlessly move to a different part of the restaurant, he welcomed us and informed us we were in for a real treat.
"We're a couple of foodies, you know, and this place is at the top of our list!" He took a sip of wine; Marissa glanced up briefly from the menu before mirroring his action.
The hostess asked us if the table across from the Nuri's would be fine. We were in a clutch: it would probably be even more awkward to request a seat across the room. We sat down. Immediately, Larry leaned back on his chair, "You girls are going to love this, mark my word. we always get the crab cakes. All of the seafood here is great-isn't it?" he called upon an affirmation from his wife who nodded. He tilted back to his table.
I noticed how quiet the restuarant was. When Larry was not talking to us, he was occasionally muttering short phrases to his wife, who replied less occasionally. Their conversation was best when seasoned by the din of clinking fork and knives on their plates and slugs of wine. It felt awkward for us to speak to loudly, for fear we'd break the silence and quiet of the Nuris' anniversary dinner in their restaurant.
We ordered lavash pizza, despite the raves of our pseudo maitre-d. It arrived as a crispy cracker crust embellished with tomatoes, mozzarella and balsamic vinagrette.
The moment we began crunching, Larry Nuri chanted, "crunch! crunch! a lot of crunching over there! Sounds like some people are enjoying their first time!" I always hate when people patronize via talking about me right in front of my face. Especially when PG sexual inuendos are made. I checked for Larry's wife's expression and wondered how her anniversary made her feel. Here she was, alone in this empty, ugly restaurant listening to her husband analyze and imitate the mastication of strangers.
Larry Nuri had informed me his wife was a native of Phoenix. They had met at a club downtown twenty years ago. As we pay our bill, I look over and think about whether she reconsiders the moment she had allowed him to talk to her, the moment that she had accepted a first date, an engagement and a marriage to this import from Cornell. On paper, Larry Nuri was probably a catch. But was this, in the end, worth two crabcakes at a cheap table?
However, it is not fair to make these assumptions. Maybe, they really were quite the pair, maybe they were whispering to each other, communicating through some personal semantics. Maybe they were just a couple of foodies.
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