Felix Trattoria

Venice |CA

| February 17, 2018 - roughly around 10:00 p.m. |

It was the first time. The one that started it all. The theme was jean on jean and nobody shied away from the challenge. My cousin was wearing dark indigo pants with a crinkled chambray shirt to match. Wrist to elbow, he was covered with faux wooden beads like a man who prefers veggie burgers for the taste. My sister donned a hybrid Tennessee tuxedo – the classic jacket and pants combo but deeply saturated on the bottom and bleached up top. The counterpart to my cousin, I was all light in color: skinny jeans ripped around the knees, an acid-washed cowboy shirt with ivory snap buttons, a jean jacket so tight it barely reached my waist, and a red bandana tucked in my jacket pocket to accent. We had the whole denim spectrum covered. As we walked down Abbott Kinney toward the restaurant, we couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous we looked. After all, the whole point of this exercise was to draw attention to ourselves. Even better than the shock we anticipated was the indifference of passersby and locals. Nobody held their gaze or even did a double take…you’ve gotta love Venice. I’m not sure where the night started, but we were drunk when we walked in.

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The entrance is not what you’d expect from a restaurant you booked two months earlier only to get a 10:00 p.m. reservation. Rather cramped and loud, it’s somewhat uninviting. The bar is pushed up against the front door, people are everywhere, and did I mention it’s loud? After revealing to the hostess that we had a reservation, we were ushered across a distinct threshold separating the restaurant in two. The ambiance of the dining room juxtaposed that of our initial impression. Although not necessarily elegant, it carried the warmth of a familiar setting – much like a visit to grandma’s house. I soon realized that the first room was some sort of purgatory for those without reservations, somewhere in-between fine dining and an eternal aperitif. Saint Peter was a bit smaller, more Asian and noticeably female than I expected; but then again, faith is about mysteries.

I was beginning to think this restaurant was all hype until I met our waitress, Kate. A modern-day Venus, her beauty transcended the limitations of human mortality. With a sparkle in her eyes and a bounce to her chocolate curls, she sauntered over to our table from across the room. Being as inebriated as I was, this description is just speculation…but sparks immediately flew when I complemented how well she took down our order. We ate pizza, barbecued octopus, rigatoni, orecchiette, and let’s not forget the simple yet elegant tonnarelli cacio e pepe. So much flavor with just salt, pepper, and cheese that I can remember the sensation even though I was blackout drunk. The whole feast felt like a Rocky montage, but if he had been eating the beef as opposed to hitting it. I began referring to Kate as my kindred spirit. And I meant it.

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We had finished a fair amount of dishes by this point, but how could I continue flirting with Kate if we paid the bill? An order of pork meatballs, Nonna’s cake, and a double espresso soon followed. Not necessarily together, but you get the picture. Finally full, the moment of truth had come. She had to know how I felt. Professing my love, I told Kate she could expect my phone number with the tip. Sliding the check over to me as the obvious alpha of the group, she said “I already beat you to it.” Right there at the top of the check was a phone number and a signature reading: your kindred spirit, Kate. I could have died in that moment and been completely at peace.

It obviously didn’t work out, but not from a lack of trying. We texted for a while before I never asked her out and she ghosted me. A modern romance. I still don’t know what she looks like, but I’d like to think she’s potentially beautiful.