At 5 o’clock, Michael sits on the front porch waiting for me. I look at him wearing a sports coat and khakis, and I feel a bit underdressed in my jeans and windbreaker. However, I did keep seeing the word casual when reading about happy hour at the Grand Galvez for this outing. But maybe not this casual.

“I’ll be right back,” I say.

I keep the jeans but ditch the windbreaker, shrug into a dressier black sweater jacket, add earrings, and return to the front porch and Michael.

The Grand Galvez

The Hotel Galvez—now called The Grand Galvez—has a new owner, a hotelier from Dallas. And the hotel has been under extensive—$20,000,000—renovation for the past twelve months. The Galvez is part of our history when visiting Galveston, and last winter the dining areas were closed. So, I am anxious to return this January and see the facelift.

Walking through the double French doors on Bernardo de Galvez Avenue—the rear entrance—we climb the stairs and enter a world of over-the-top opulence. The day verges on the edge of night; the Grand Galvez interior is dark and sexy. I feel underdressed; our surroundings dictate white tie and tails, but others stroll the halls in Bermuda shorts and jeans. I guess I’m acceptable.

Happy Hour at The Grand Galvez

We find the cozy bar with various seating options, choosing an area tucked away in a corner. Since the bar menu will also be our dinner menu, we decide that moving to a high tabletop for two would be a better option. Changing our seating, I feel like Goldilocks, trying to find the perfect fit chair.

Seated, we wait. Expectantly, we wait. No server appears.

Most of the patrons sit at the bar, drinking. Some eating. So, Michael walks a few feet to the bar and orders our drinks. A Bombay Sapphire martini, very dry. An old-fashioned. Returning, he hands me a bar snack menu. For me, there isn’t a choice; I notice Oysters Rockefeller at the very bottom of the happy hour offerings. Michael chooses the obvious (for him) short-rib sliders. While Michael orders our “snacks,” I click pictures.

The bartender arrives with our drinks, letting us know our food order will arrive shortly. I continue to examine our surroundings. Dark polished wood. Black and white photos framed in gold. Giant gold bells. Baccarat crystal chandeliers peeking beneath. Two enormous red crystal chandeliers. The sparkling red crystals bathe the area where we sit in a soft rose glow. I think of a high-class bordello from days gone by.

A Happy Hour Dinner

Our bar snacks—a very loose term for what is placed before us—arrive. The oysters are delicious; based on their diminutive size, they must be from colder waters than the Texas Gulf Coast. This is a good thing—I like small oysters.

Michael’s short rib sliders are tender, coated with brie, and accompanied by a dipping sauce. He also has a pile of crisp fries on his plate. I steal a few when he isn’t looking.

Like one of the legendary ghosts of this hotel, our excessively indulgent happy hour disappears. We slip out of our chairs and explore.

There isn’t an option or discussion—we must come back. More than once for happy hour. For dinner. Perhaps lunch. Even breakfast. With six weeks before us, we should be able to fit it all in.