Eavesdropping at Shutters

A convertible Corvette squeals onto the valet turn-around at Shutters. The driver is built like William Shatner, in his 50s, and in the grip of a mid-life crisis that only 500 horsepower can ameliorate.

He leaps from the car, tosses the keys to the valet and barks, “park it,” as if without the order the red-vested valet would dump soil into the vehicle and plant a rose garden.

A pretty woman about ten years his junior steps out of the Corvette’s passenger seat and drapes a shawl over her shoulders. The driver puts a hand on the small of her back and guides her away like at the end of an Oscar speech.

I enter the hotel’s restaurant and sit down at the bar with my steno pad. I intend to shamelessly eavesdrop this evening over a double Jameson, neat.

Occupying the last three stools at the end of the bar is a threesome waiting on their table. She is an African-American woman in a hounds tooth business suit. Her two male companions, maybe Dutch or German by their accents, are twirling glasses of red wine in crumpled collars and pullover sweaters.

They are scientists of some sort and talking business in a leisurely, after-hours sort of way. She seems to be on the business end of things, entertaining them for the home office.

“Yes, things could get a bit rocky,” says the man nearest me.

They chuckle lightly at this, and then she mentions Boston.

“I’ve always wanted to go on that Liberty Tour thing they have in Boston” one man announces.

A couple comes in, early 30s. I imagine they handed the valet the keys to a Mercedes SUV with a USC sticker on the window and a baby seat in the back. There is clearly a chill between them, and getting here was a trial. The woman is slight and fit, with the movements of a hummingbird as she scans the dining room.

“Should we call them?” she asks her husband, tall and clenched-faced, looking past her. He grunts unintelligibly.

A ruddy man sits down next to me, giving me the back of his sport coat as he looks out through the big restaurant windows at the remaining orange slice of sunset. He is only half perched on the stool, as if ready to bolt, bouncing one leg up and down like a pogo stick. The bartender nods to him and the man orders chardonnay. “And a Coke.”

The man grabs most of the contents of a bowl of potato chips and wolfs them nervously. He gives off a strong East Coast vibe. It’s clear his soda and his wine are his alone, a sort of balance between invigoration and sedation. I figure the warmth in the middle of November has put the zap on him.

Another couple walks in behind the Mercedes SUVs, still standing at the bar. It’s the other couple they were waiting for.

“Hiiiiiii” say the women in unison, turning the greeting into four syllables.

The new couple are friendly looking people of the same age. Hugs all around. After the women embrace they hold each other out at arms length and inspect one another.

“Oh. That is soooo cute,” says the new woman to the hummingbird. The new man is beefy and bear hugs the tall one.

“Ready to eat?”

“Totally ready.”

The Corvette driver is now seated at a nearby table with the pretty woman, and he’s on. His hands are up as if surrendering to someone.

“And so, I’m just…dying,” he tells the woman, “and I’m wondering if I’ll ever catch a break…”

He laughs harder at his story than she does. He sips from his water glass and she cocks her head to one side, and smiles a long time at his face glowing in the candlelight. And now I can tell she’s his same age, but tranquility makes her look younger.

This is either their first date and she’s trying to figure him out, or they’re a long-married couple deeply in love. From a distance it’s hard to tell.