Restaurants

After driving to Seattle for a crafts fair in the university district and after checking into my hotel, and before finding any of my friends, I decide to get serving to eat. I notice that across the street is a restaurant and I figure, why not? I approach the front door of what can only be called a concrete cube.
I probably wouldn't be attracted to a place like that now, but now was then. I opened the door and pushed aside heavy red drapes and stepped into an anteroom coated with gilded mirrors.
Incongruity rooted me to the spot. Outside, the highway churned with truck traffic and people headed home to a warm, comprehensible dinner.
I was not so sanguine.
But before I could reconsider , I was escorted to a table.
To my delight the table snuggled up near a piano where a pianeuse, a black woman in a gorgeous gown, played and sang.
I watched and clapped and appreciated.
I said so, and she thanked me.
Then she asked what a nice boy like me was doing in a place like this.
This?
I admit that my crap detector is set on "Low", usually, but I now looked around and saw lots of mirrors and suits, gilding and women of the broad sort.
She played wonderfully.
I told her that I was a woodworker and that I was going to be selling at the craft show on the morrow.
Here she was, in brocade and singing jazzy songs on a grand piano in what I was now suspecting to be a hangout of some sort, and she tells me that she is a woodworker too!
She loves it and we talk tools and wood species, between songs, for the rest of the night.

I went back a few years later and there was no building there.



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