The Rotunda restaurant in San Francisco features service often found in Paris and I mean this in a good way – the wait staff is knowledgeable, over 40, and elegant in a manner that is neither ironic nor snobby. Plus, they use the scrape-y thing to wipe away your crumbs.
This classy establishment is on the fourth floor of Neiman Marcus in Union Square, under a dome constructed from tiny pieces of stained glass. As customers eat warm popovers with strawberry butter and sip Kir Royales, runway models sashay between tables, showcasing fancy dresses sold two floors down in Designer Apparel. The whole scene is very Ottoman Empire harem-chic, minus the eunuchs.
After a recent three-hour shopping spree that began with playtime at the MAC makeup counter and ended with the realization that sometimes the jeans I want don’t look good on me (Levis) and the jeans I don’t want look great on me (Eileen Fisher), I wandered into Neiman Marcus.
Stroking a vegan leather Stella McCartney dress, I began to crave a burger, so I took the escalator upstairs to the Rotunda and settled into one of the booths in the back.
“Michael, I’ve got to talk to you about those godforsaken bowls.”
A loud voice startled me. I looked up from my menu to see a woman in a silver top sitting at the table next to me, dangling her reading glasses from one hand, and pointing at her male dining companion with the other. “Michael,” she repeated, “I said I’ve got to talk to you about those awful bowls.”
Wearing a black turtleneck and a Burberry scarf, Michael glanced up from his phone with a look one might give a child who is asking for more syrup on her already drenched pancakes. “They’re gone,” he said with mild exasperation, “The bowls are gone.”
“Thank god,” the woman sighed as she took a sip of iced tea, put her glasses on, and examined her phone.
Please say something else. I beg you.
“Michael?”
Oh goodie.
“Michael?”
“Yes, what is it? I’m writing Kendra.”
“Michael, how many times over the past 12 years have I asked you to forward me emails from Kendra?”
I assumed the answer was many times. Jesus, Michael. Get your shit together.
Michael’s boss kept using his name as a status reminder. “Michael, when I tell you to do something, it’s just that. I’m telling you, I’m not asking you.” (I once had a boss who said my name constantly, often in conjunction with the phrase, “It’s so good of you to…”)
“Michael, just call her.”
“I’m writing this to Kendra: ‘Bonnie’s going to kill me if they don’t get us that style guide immediately.’”
Aha! Bonnie must run some sort of design company.
“Stop writing, Michael. I’ll call her.”
Oh no. Don’t answer, Kendra, don’t answer.
“Kendra, it’s Bonnie.”
Shit.
“Kendra, did you yes or did you no, get the style guide from Crystal?” Bonnie listened for a moment, slammed her phone on the table, took a long drag of iced tea and glared at Michael, “She says Crystal sent it.”
“If Crystal said she sent it, then she sent it.”
“Michael, the only thing I care about in that style guide is Mixed Metallics and Peach Shimmer.”
Michael was saved by the arrival of his roasted beet and burrata salad. “Yummy,” he said, still looking at his phone.
“What are these shrimp doing here? Didn’t I order the Cobb salad? Michael, what did I order?”
Six women, perhaps in their 70’s, walked past with shopping bags and brightly colored raincoats. One of them was holding a pink cake box. Bonnie called out, “Which one’s the birthday girl?” They pointed at their friend. “Don’t look so sad,” Bonnie smiled, “You’re still above ground so there’s that.”
Unwrapping his scarf and tugging gently at the top of his turtleneck, Michael carefully announced, “We need to talk about Judy.”
Bonnie grimaced as she used her fingers to transfer her shrimp to a bread plate. “I can’t talk about Judy for one more second. You’re very patient, Michael, for an impatient person.”
“Here’s the thing. Stay with me Bonnie. You go to a party and there are 10 people there. Two are above average, two are average, and two are below average. Judy and her team are below average.”
I was trying to figure out where the other four people were when a model drifted by in an off-the-shoulder black lace gown. Michael leaned over and said in a stage whisper, “She’s got to be a size double-zero.”
The model pivoted gracefully and glided over to their table. My burger arrived.
“It’s Oscar de la Renta,” the model told Bonnie and Michael. She lifted a corner of the gown to show the lace detail. “Isn’t it divine?”
Bonnie looked up from her phone and said, “Well it helps if you’re six feet tall and a hundred pounds.” The model looked down at her dress and responded, “Well, yes.”
I ate my burger slowly. Every bite seemed juicier than the last. Bonnie and Michael were quiet for a while, absorbed in their phones and their food. My waitress came over to ask if I was enjoying everything. It couldn’t be better.