I paddled through a sea of teenagers in the courtyard to get to Sierra Bar. Saturday night they hang about the rooftop, waiting for their lives to begin. The boys eyed the girls. The girls pretended not to notice but eyed the boys back.
The air between them was charged with endorphins. My Lady slipped off her jacket and hung it on the back of her seat.
There was a “That’s Alan, the owner of Sierra,” I whispered in her ear, nodding at the lone gentleman seated at the end of the counter. Her back was to him, so she turned around in an amateurish way.
“I always thought he was a much older man.” She said loud enough for anybody outside the mall to hear. (Some people were not born with a whispering muscle). His face was quiet but watchful. He was nursing something with Coke while discreetly taking in the activity of the room.
We were there for their gourmet burgers. It’s the only thing we eat at Sierra because it works each time. That and wine. We ordered two glasses of Malbec.
The table at the corner was occupied by a group of ladies in their 40s who seemed to be having a jolly good time. At the next table, by the door, a married couple was also having a jolly good time on their phones. It’s a small space, Sierra, intimate. It’s charcoal, brick, and wood. It feels like a place you can trust with your meat.
It had drizzled and then stopped, the air was sweet and bouncy. At some point, the wave of teenagers moved away as if blown by a strong wind and the food court was suddenly less crowded.
Our burgers came. Alan ordered another drink. The voices of the ladies in the corner rose and fell in laughter. The married couple paid their bill and scrapped their chairs as they stood up to leave. Alan signed his bill and left.
“He’s probably going home to sit on a low sofa to read a book with an old dognapping at his feet,” I said, asking for our bill. “Is there wine on my teeth?” My Lady asked.
