Provence

Drifting apart from college friends is a harsh, inevitable reality we face in our late twenties. I specifically remember in the few months after we graduated, I was sending out mass e-mails from my miserable sales job at the New Yorker magazine, hoping my friends would respond and that we would stay in touch forever. I took it personally when people didn't write back for weeks, until they apologized with the, "Sorry M, I've been SO busy!" Doing what? I would wonder.

The e-mails soliciting life updates and pitching reunion ideas have dwindled as we get further and further away from our college days. Phone calls went from once or twice a week to once or twice every few months. And the fact that I've been out of college for more years than I was in is just downright disturbing. I still wear my school colors with pride, but even my UVA T-shirt collection has dwindled as I've replaced the tattered and stained college tees with newer, whiter ones.

One of my best friends from school is Carebear. Little did I know in the summer of 1997, when she called and told me -- in her southern drawl -- we were going to be roommates and teammates, that I would be singing in her wedding almost exactly eight years later.

We went through a lot together: waking up at five o'clock in the morning for swim practices four times a week, rushing the same sorority though a year apart, baseball team crushes, choosing dates for formals, deviled eggs and pimento cheese plates at tailgates, one or two keg parties, trips to Lynchburg, Va., for the holidays (my family lived abroad in Tokyo for three out of my four years in college and her family adopted me as their surrogate daughter), dresses that were too tight at Easter brunches, road trips and beach weeks in Duck, Nagshead and Myrtle Beach, S.C., sneaking into bars and drinking underage, Christmas training trips to Venezuela and Florida, traveling in Japan, and other events better left unwritten.

If something happened to me, Carebear would be the first person I called. We were a team, whether we were in the water or heading to the Biltmore for $2 pitcher nights.

Even though we don't see each other or hang out as often as we used to, Carebear will always be a very true and loyal friend. When she got engaged and then married almost two years ago, our paths began to digress, though we would still party from time to time like we never left college. It wasn't until dinner a few weeks ago that I realized this was about to change forever.

We set dinner plans for just the two of us. In the past we've had group dinners, but they usually don't allow for quality catching up time. I chose what I thought was a new restaurant, thanks to Eater's plywood alert, and when I sent my Provence suggestion to Carebear she said she thought she'd eaten there once. I was doubtful. This was coming from a girl who couldn't remember movies she'd seen. On more than one occasion, I would call her from Blockbuster to ask if she'd seen a movie, she would say no, and halfway into the movie at home she'd realize she had seen it already.

I discovered Provence was in fact re-opening. I arrived several minutes late and found Carebear sitting tall and pretty at the bar, her strawberry blonde hair neatly straightened behind her. She stands at six feet tall, though on the record she'll tell you she's an inch under six feet. She reminds me of Nicole Kidman and when we visited Tokyo, the Japanese students would stop and stare, and ask to take their picture with her, thinking she was a model or a celebrity, or at least a famous basketball player.

Provence had large open windows -- my favorite aspect of the place -- and several tables in the front dining room. The bar was parallel to the dining room. From the table we sat at, the bar stools were an arm's length away. The bar had mirrors behind it and added some depth to the room. Overall, the restaurant decor was painfully nondescript.

Our server came to the table and we ordered a couple of glasses of wine. It didn't take us very long to decide on what to eat seeing that the menu was very limited. There were only a handful of choices in each category.

For starters we tried the salt cod fritters and aioli. The little fried balls were hot and crispy on the outside, and warm and soft on the inside. They tasted like mini crabcakes and the aioli could have used a little more lemon and garlic. It tasted like plain, but thick thick mayo. Had I known this was going to be the best plate we ordered all night I would have ordered two.

I ordered the stuffed pig with sliced potatoes. Before I say anything, scroll down to see Carebear's dish. Do you see a similarity? Look how watery the sauces are. There was way too much fat on my slice of pig and I only ended up getting about four solid forkfuls of tender meat. The potatoes got soggy in the puddles.

Carebear ordered the New York strip steak with red wine shallot marmalade. I'm not sure where the marmalade was, maybe they forgot it. I will say her steak was a lot better than my pig plate, but that's not saying much. It was all around too soggy for me, and the fact that it was undercooked made it even worse.

Somewhere in between bites, Carebear put her fork down, took a sip of wine and looked at me.

"I have some news," she said, with a dubious grin on her face.

I have such a big mouth that I immediately started rambling, I'm sure with a big piece of potato in my mouth.

"Are you guys moving? Sydney? England?"

She stared blankly back at me.

"Ok, no, did you get promoted? New job?"

I love guessing games. We play them in our house all the time, and it annoys people when I make them guess things, but I just can't help it. Even when someone has no chance of guessing I'll prod them until their guesses get warmer and warmer. So I was determined not to let Carebear tell me the news herself.

"Are you..." The word pregnant was on the tip of my tongue, but I was going to say it half-jokingly, knowing this was not at all a possibility. We've talked about it before and Carebear pleaded the "We're not ready" clause.

"I'm pregnant!" Her whole face lit up.

Mine almost exploded. I didn't know what to do, to cry, scream, shout, laugh or hug her, so I did it all, except hug her. I decided to keep my composure in my own chair. Our lives together flashed before me and all I could do for the next fifteen to twenty minutes was sit in front of her with my face in my hands, screaming, "Oh my god oh my god oh my god!"

I would have a sip of water, have a sip of wine, "Oh my god oh my god oh my god!"

After a few rounds of this banal behavior, I noticed something. Her glass of wine was almost finished.

"What are you doing with that, missy? I will not allow you to drink wine with little W- on the way!"

She convinced me that the glass wouldn't kill her and that it was ok for now. I had a hard time believing this, but she was always the mature, responsible one out of the two of us so I trusted her.

We laughed, I held back tears and I learned that baby W- will be born around the end of September. I will be pulling for September 27 -- the greatest day of the year.

I am so thrilled for Carebear and her husband. I just talked to my mom and she told me Papyrus has expectant mothers-to-be cards, so I will have to run and get one later today.

In all the baby excitement, I almost forgot about our dinner, which was probably for the best. Provence was memorable for getting together with a great friend, and for hearing her wonderful news. Carebear was glowing, but the food was not. I don't know why Provence closed the first time, but with all the excellent French bistros in the city, it's going to have a lot of work to do to not close again.

Congratulations, Carebear. I love you and can't wait to take little Carebear out for his or her first meal on the town. I was once Carebear's surrogate sister, so that makes me a surrogate aunt, right?

38 Macdougal St., between Prince & Houston St.
212-475-7500

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Barcibo Enoteca

Since leaving my previous job, I've been in withdrawal from my daily dose of Winette. We used to instant message constantly at work on the TOTO, or "Talk of the Office." Our discussions covered a wide variety of newsworthy subjects, from scantily clad interns, to anchor fashion faux pas, to daft co-workers and who was shagging who -- typical office banter, really. Now that we don't get to share these amusing messages throughout the day, we plan catch up nights from time to time, but not as often as we'd like.

Our last get together was an uptown wine night spent at Barcibo Enoteca. When we were deciding where to go, I was a little worried because I couldn't find any write up on the upper west side wine bar. It wasn't that I didn't trust Winette had read about it. I was just wondering if it was still open. To this day I don't see it anywhere on the Web, so if you find it somewhere, please let me know. I don't even know the exact address to give you, other than it is on the east side of Broadway, somewhere between 68th St. and 71st St. I hope this helps.

WARNING: Avoid entering Barcibo Enoteca on an empty stomach and lightweight drinkers should proceed with caution and at their own risk.

The morning after my night at Barcibo Enoteca was one of the worst days I've had at work in history. I was sicker than I'd ever been, with the exception of my first night at the University of Virginia. All morning I was pleading with my co-workers to send me home, but they kept giving me nothing but pep talks as if I was about to compete in an Olympic event.

"You can do it, Mona. You can get through this. Be tough."

I would look at them with a somber look of death, my face felt like it was drooping down to my keyboard.

"Oh, please. I've seen worse. Go get some grease and drink some Gatorade. You'll feel better in no time," said another.

"No, I think I'm going to d-"

"Stopppppuh. Suck it up, Mona."

My seatmate ClarkKent shared a survival story about how he had to teach a classroom full of kids hungover. At least I got to sit down, I thought. The toughest thing I had to face was our publishing program, not a room filled with kids asking questions. He was right. I could do this and I did.

Barcibo Enoteca is small, and if it wasn't for the extra seating on the mezzanine level, I wouldn't hurry back. Most wine bars have at least some spots for standing, but it's awkward standing at Barcibo Enoteca, which I did for some time waiting for free seats. Every table is tall -- about the bar's height. I really liked this stylistic seating choice. It added a unique quality to the dining rooms. The bar was very small, and only fit about six people, but the bonus is there is a bar on the upper level as well.

I was the first to arrive at Barcibo Enoteca and I was less than impressed with the welcoming staff. There were a couple of waitresses floating around and there was clearly a host on the floor. I had been waiting by myself, with no attention, for at least ten minutes, if not more. I was losing my cool, and the host sensed it because he finally came over to me and asked if I needed anything.

"Is it pretty much fend for yourself here?" I asked.

"You got it."

I had turned into one of those people I hate -- the lurking vultures who check out your every move at a table. Was that the last bite? Is that the last sip? Did they pay the bill? Are they waiting for change? I was trying to keep my eye on several tables and another couple walked in. This could get ugly.

After they were also ignored, they turned around and headed right back out the door. At least this saved me from a seating battle.

A few minutes later my prayers were answered and a couple got up from their seats at the bar on the ground level. I sat down and Winette arrived.

The bartender was really friendly. She poured us waters right away, handed us the wine menu and offered to pour us anything we wanted.

Winette and I sipped several tastes before choosing our wines. We also ordered olives, a cheese plate and shrimp and artichoke bruschetta. We requested the shrimp on the side because Winette is a vegetarian and it was not a problem. They were very generous with the cheeses -- we chose three with different textures. Barcibo's bruschetta was a hungry man's version. I'm used to my Dad's finely chopped tomatoes and onions and theirs had huge chunks of artichokes -- I could barely pick it up with my hands. It was good but I could have done without the shrimp. More is not always better.

After a few hours of stories, laughs and huge glasses of wine, I started getting sleepy. The long work days were catching up with me, as was the wine. The wine glasses at Barcibo are like normal water or soda glasses without stems, and the bartender filled them to the rim, as if we ordered Cokes.

I didn't think I drank that much once I hugged Winette good night. But when the alarm went off at six o'clock in the morning the next day, I felt like I had done shots of tequila all night. I vowed to ease off the juice and drinking on school nights for a while.

Today, two of my favorite days are combined into one: it's Cinco de Mayo and the Kentucky Derby. There will be cheering for the horses and plenty of sombreros and tequila to go around -- BeanieBaby even made us taco T-shirts. If you see a group of wild and crazy girls barhopping on the upper west side, stop and say hello. But first, I head to Winette's apartment, for her annual Kentuck Derby party, where I will be careful to drink small glasses of wine, and not barrels.

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