SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

Last night, my girlfriend and I stood on the corner of 17^th and Irving arguing about whether we’d have better success picking up non-douchey men who didn’t frequent clubs at The W or at 3^rd Avenue bars. Unexpectedly, the tables turned and we found ourselves being picked up by a group of boisterous men sitting outdoors at the restaurant Casa Mono behind us. We scuttled away avoiding eye-contact with them until my girlfriend glimpsed a pair of bright orange crocs under the table. She firmly grasped my forearm and whispered,

“That’s Mario Batali.”

Me: “No way. Which one? Where?”

“The one in the orange crocs!”

Cue the visual of a large, ecstatic, red-faced man who had his blue plaid pants rolled into shorts and a dishtowel casually draping out of each pocket, who was now calling:

“Let me offer you a glass of wine. Sit down. Sit down!”

When arguably the most famous chef in America instructs you to sit down on a pleasantly warm September night at a quaint outdoor table full of friends, you just do exactly as he says without really processing any of it.

I then tried the best white wine I’ve ever had in my life. I remember nothing except he said it was Spanish and only around $50 a bottle. Batali then proceeded to ask if we were hungry.

I’m always hungry. And even if you aren’t hungry, when Mario Batali offers you food, I think it wise to just accept.

We were then brought a selection of rare cheeses; one aged ten, the others fifteen and twenty years along with the Spanish version of tomato bruschetta. Mario’s a pretty sloppy person, and I mean this in the most generous way. He slapped around these delicacies and stacked them on top of each other before shoving them in our mouths with none of the care or attention to detail you’d expect from an Iron Chef. Clearly, this was just a guy who loved food. A very drunk guy who loved food. I felt like I’d fell into the warm custody of culinary Santa Clause.

The evening progressed surprisingly awkward free. Also at the table was Tom Colicchio, co-host and judge of Bravo’s Top Chef, who Mario thoroughly enjoyed antagonizing.

Four other chefs shared the table, as well as one out of place business man and handsome HBO actor. Mario proceeded to show us pictures of his most recent vacation with his sons on his iPhone while I attempted to wolf down all the cheese without looking like a starving Neanderthal.

We all did some life story sharing (did you know Batali was from Seattle? I didn’t) and I noticed that Mario’s seemingly disjointed outfit was actually somewhat tied together:

His crocs, his large purse (yes, purse. He seemed fine with me calling it that) and the Sharpie marker in his shirt pocket were all orange.

I then started to think about how amazing it was that a man’s whose restaurants are renowned as the Holy Grail of culinary exclusivity could be so well, utterly friendly and relaxed. And when I asked him about this he shook his head wearily and almost looked sad (as much as an ecstatically drunk, robust chef can manage to look sad) and said:

“It’s very hard for people to get reservations at my restaurants. And I hate that.”

So there you go. The creative powerhouse behind New York’s most esteemed restaurants, melancholy like a child that more of the masses don’t get to enjoy his food.

From there Batali and his entourage headed to another one of his clubhouses, The Spotted Pig (or as he calls it, just “Pig.”) As I watched him wobble away towards Union Square on his antique vespa, I was left with that strange hybrid of feelings I get anytime I meet someone famous of:

“Wow! (Impressed) Really? (Confused)”

Then I took myself home to an empty kitchen.