The television station I work for carries the NCAA March Madness Mayhem Whatever It's Called (basketball stuff), which means that instead of the news, student sporting events are on TV. As a result, the 5pm and 6pm newscast people have no real pressing business. Like my friend Wilson, an Emmy-award winning producer who spent FOREVER at my desk yesterday afternoon strumming on his guitar. I said I felt like I was dining in a restaurant, awkwardly trying to eat while politely listening to the violinist. Also, good luck getting "La Bamba" out of Wilson.Speaking of Emmys, I used to think they were a really huge deal. But I sit kind of eye-to-eye with TV's Mike Sugerman who was giving me the juice on someone and remarked, "Well, Beth. He has like, 50 Emmys."
"Doesn't everyone around here have an Emmy?" I asked. "How many do you have?"
And Sugerman deadpanned, "Fourteen."
I think if I stick around long enough, one'll just end up on my desk.
Last night, I was due to meet my family at Wexler's at 7:30 and suggested we all meet for a drink beforehand at Palio. That way, I could just hang out at the bar after work until my folks showed up. I Facebooked Chef Dan at Palio who told me that he was packed with a private party. But if I wanted, he could squeeze me into some table with his chef-friend who planned to dine alone and we could be, "the odd couple."
THANK YOU NO.
Because by that time, I'd made my Facebook status a Financial District cry for help. Asking anyone if they wanted to kill 2 hours with me near work and near Wexler's, I ended up meeting my friend John for drinks. He'd be at Harrington's, he mentioned, geographically perfect for my needs. So I left Willie Nelson at work, and headed down to Harrington's, as Melissa and Christine both texted, "You're at Harrington's? Heading over."
My friend John is very thoughtful, and felt somehow I needed the following warning.
"I'm with 5 guys. FYI."
I don't really know what that was supposed to mean, but I went into the wrong bar anyway. I was in the Royal Exchange, which is practically Harrington's. Why are two such similar bars right next door to each other? Oh, because guys in mid-priced suits and North Face jackets want to knock back THAT much Sierra? That being said, I find the whole suit/North Face/Sierra thing slightly attractive, so I lingered in the Royal Exchange after figuring out I was in the wrong bar.
Eight of us chatted around this table at Harrington's until I finally said, "I need a bar nearby where my folks can meet me."
The suggestions thrown at me covered every possible base, from Michael Mina to Mr. Bing's.
"I cannot take my parent's to Mr. Bing's."
And John, who's very old-school San Francisco and cheerfully knows every business in town, suddenly announced, "Go to Georges! Georges is perfect."
"Oh, I've seen that place. Will it be crowded? Is it parent friendly?"
"Yes." Melissa said. "It's actually perfect. There'll be room and it's very your-folks."
"Okay, Georges." I said. "It's right there. And you're sure it's...?"
"Beth." John stared at me. "It's family-owned."