“Georgia not the Peach…”
© 2024
Last night being Saturday, the “goils”, (girls), that haven’t been girls in more than 80 years, did our night out to dinner. We met in our apartment building’s lobby at 6:15.
We’re eating in a new Georgian cafe…whose fare is foreign to all of us. Exactly what countries border Georgia… we didn't know. 🤔This is restaurant replaced “Malaga”, on old Spanish favorite of mine, that occupied this spot for years.
The short trek is still monumental for us…it being a foggy, misty night in Manhattan.
I lead the pack of 5 in my red scooter, followed by Doris walking her noisy, squeaky walker, Harriet holding on to the rear of my scooter, kvetching with each step as her back hurts. Bringing up the rear…is Carol holding her aching neck. Doris stops to chat with one neighbor after another she bumps into, on the way. Carol waits for her to finish as does Claire.
Harriet & I arrive at the restaurant but where is the rest of our gang?
They do not know the name, nor address of the eatery, as I made the reservation. It is already late for our reservation so I, proceed to the place…alone, while Harriet goes looking for the procrastinating laggers.
Its rude. To keep from being cranky at the lateness of my trailing ladies…I immediately order a glass of house wine…as soon as I hit the table.
(It takes the edge off & mellows me, as I hold the table in the crowded cafe). Glass in hand, I check out the cafe’s decor.
I was amazed how its space had been altered from its former Spanish garish red restaurant, “Malaga” into this old Bohemian Tavern, named “Oda”.
The place now was homey in a European rustic, personal appointed way. Rough brick floors replaced the former lively Spanish tiled one. Bric a brac adorned the Bavarian -carved wooden shelving that bordered the antiqued tin ceiling. Unmatched plates and primitive painted tinware, mixed with straw dolls. Faded black & white photos of posed Georgian railroad workers, mustached peasants, with wives, & skinny gaggles of children…all with frozen smiles hung on the rough stucco walls. Pictures were of another age perhaps 1940's…I guessed. Very ethnic, foreign yet warm.
The young, curly haired waiter/ brothers in blue jeans, with red aprons were smiling and so accommodating, respectful to us grannies. The crowd was a young one…except for us.
“Just where is Georgia”? We innocently wanted to know.
We knew it had been part of The Soviet Union, but they proudly showed us on their country on a map. I guess we weren’t the only ignorant guests that they had to show its location to, because the map was placed so handy, to display.
There were wooden booths their seats covered in stubby patterned rugs, no doubt from Georgian looms. A variety of well-used candles in groups glowed in the room. I felt like we were in Georgia…in a small unpretentious neighborhood tavern…with locals. Just to think we were only a few blocks away from our 900-apartment tall building. The heavy wine is doing its job… transporting me in my imagination, to another country.
A basket of thick sliced bread, with creamy butter, and red cabbage slaw, crisp baby pickles were divine appetizers, with the huge generously filled wine goblets. They that wanted to please us…they were so attentive.
We ordered lamb kabob mostly because that was the only entree we recognized of the foreign language offerings. It came with fluffy rice and lovely sauteed vegetables. Sides of usual salads & dough filled with spiced meat & potato. Delicious!
When we finished our dinner, the waiters helped us out the door graciously. “Please come back again, soon” …hugging our hands.
