A Trip to The Old Place

At 4:30 pm, we are in the car heading south toward The Old Place on Mulholland Drive. I couldn’t believe this was actually the name of the restaurant, but Heather said, “Yes!” She made reservations for the six of us at 6:30 this evening and being late isn’t an option.  The Old Place is a bit ornery when it comes to its dinner seatings.  Actually, they are downright dictatorial. Duration of reservations is limited to an hour and a half each and enforced due to the size of their business; only having five booths and three tables — reservations are for four or more only. This is Brendan’s favorite restaurant, and Heather has been trying to get us in for weeks.

Notes from their website:

…Seriously, we are the size of a shoebox…

…You have to go outside to get to the bathroom…

…it’s loud inside…

…we hope that you are not offended if we do not change the way we do business for you…

…nor do we have an abundance of storage space, therefore we run out of things…

…so if this is something that you just can’t deal with then I suggest you try one of the multitudes of chain restaurants that have all of their food delivered frozen and have a warehouse in the back.

I laughed when I read their website and look forward to the evening. 

Cornell Winery

Of course, tonight we are an hour early–no wrecks on 101 this week. We head next door to the Cornell Winery and Tasting Room, order a glass of wine and wait for Heather and family to arrive.

Heather walks in by herself — pencil slim, hair long, backpack slung over one shoulder — her normal California look of ponytails sans make-up is yesterday’s memory.  The backpack is for us to use on our aborted hike on Anacapa tomorrow. I hate to tell her it is off — canceled because of high winds — I asked for the backpack four times, reminding her via text, telephone, and email.

Brendan is on a business call outside, and the boys aren’t twenty-one, so the welcome mat to the winery was rolled up as soon as they approached.  They huddle together on a bench outside and play games on Heather’s iPhone.  Before my wine glass is empty, it is 6:30 and time to walk next door.

The Old Place

True to the description on the Internet, the restaurant is the size of a shoebox, I need to search for the bathroom outside, and it is loud. Luckily, they haven’t run out of food. The grilled sirloin steak I order is huge and flavorful; I was going to order grilled fish, but my normal healthy-choice-daughter urges me to try the steak — it is the best steak she has ever had.  The rib-eye steaks that Michael and Brendan order are as big as plates, and the baked potatoes half that size. The macaroni and cheese placed before the boys is not your mama’s mac and cheese but contains sophisticated tastes that I am surprised appeal to a nine and eleven-year-old. 

We are serenaded. Twice. The bearded young men don’t know the classic Country Western tunes Michael likes — they don’t even know anything by Willie. But they do sing Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison, not sounding a bit like the gravelly voice of our memories. Michael and Heather both tip them anyway — they promise another song.

At 8:00 pm — our time at the Old Place is fine — we pay up, gather our things and leave.

Back in Oxnard, disaster strikes…

After following a necklace of ruby lights all the way back to Oxnard, I sit in front of my computer to find out the rules and regulations of Santa Barbara County parks; I want to know if wine on my beach picnic is allowed. 

I do something VERY WRONG and give my laptop a heart attack while it is going through the machinations of turning itself on. After the heart attack, it gets a headache and immediately informs me it needs to self-medicate.

The screen blinks and blanks, occasionally it makes appeasing sounds and informs me in very small letters that I might lose everything.  I didn’t believe it. An hour later, a white screen appears in the black void, so I approach, sit down, and hope for signs of life. I answer the questions asked. I want English as my language.  My name is Charlotte. I give it a new password, which is its old password. Michael sleeps. I wait.

The screen goes dark. Bells ring. Then there is light. A void. Nothing left. My screen tells me, ASUS. The self-medication is a lobotomy. Blank. No files. No pictures. No programs. No Microsoft Office. No Word. No Excel. No memory in any corner of its wee little world.  All of our photographs from this summer — LOST.

I go through the process of teaching my computer how to walk and talk.

I’m currently in therapy.

1/26/2015 12:34:06 PM