This tale weaves together traffic, theater, food, wine and, oddly enough, kava.
The odyssey begins, aptly, on Interstate 35.
I don’t do traffic. I walk. Or I take mass transit.
When I take the car, I avoid Interstate 35 or MoPac Boulevard, especially during rush hour. I steer around intersections like West Sixth Street and North Lamar Boulevard.
I take back ways. There are few back ways, however, to San Marcos.
My date, Carter Wilsford, and I had intended to see epic actor Eugene Lee in Shakespeare’s “Richard III” at Texas State University. (I’m fairly certain without the recently discovered corpse.)
We left Central Austin an hour before curtain. We reached Ben White Boulevard within 30 minutes. Then William Cannon Drive by 7:30 p.m., when the play was scheduled to begin in San Marcos.
And there appeared to be no break in the traffic. So we exited, turned right on William Cannon, then right again on South Congress Avenue.
Both hungry, we hunted for a fresh spot to try. We whizzed past a sleek condo complex with a sign that read “Kava Bar.”
We turned around and pulled up to a beautifully built-out lounge with a stage and outdoor seating. The lighted sign read: “Open.” No one was there.
As we entered, the barista raised her head from the counter. “May I help you?”
I looked around for a posted menu or a row of offered items. “What do you have?”
“Kava.”
“Just kava.”
“Mainly kava.”
I look at my date. “We’ll try a cup.”
She pulls out what looks like two half coconut shells from under the counter and explains that they hold 12 ounces each. But it would take three of each for us to “feel the kava.” We’d be relaxed but not intoxicated.
That seemed like a big investment of time and liquid. “We’re actually really hungry. We’ll come back another time.”
Spooked, we headed downtown, passing lots of long-established places, when my date said: “Winflo! It has opened on West Sixth.”
I had tried to attend the new osteria the previous week, but now it was open for business. Lots of business. The parking lot — valet only — was full. We found a spot on the street a block away, but suspected we were going to join a long line of hungry customers.
The patio, located over a depression that was once a private lake or pond, was full. So, too, the cozy interior. I spied Jerry and Becky Conn, who had just finished what appeared to be a merry meal.
“Order the Manhattans! Excellent! You can have our table …”
Not so fast. Restaurants have rules. And the hostess winced when she said the wait was one hour and 15 minutes.
No. We climbed back into the car and headed to my neighborhood. One can easily stroll to two dozen good cafes from our front door.
“What about Botticelli’s?” Carter said.
“Perfect. Haven’t been there in years.”
In fact, my previous experiences had been underwhelming. Not so this night. After an Old-Fashioned on the rocks that nicely did the job of six kavas, we were seated at a narrow table near what we guessed were pre-Valentine’s couples.
Carter ordered the wine, a Sardinian red varietal called Cannonau that he said prefigured the Grenache grapes of France. Light but firm. Even firmer as we slowly emptied the bottle.
The evening was finally underway. I had a sausage soup thick with healing black pepper. I’d recently eschewed black pepper while cooking at home in favor of red pepper flakes, thanks to the influence of rocking TV chef Anne Burrell. So this soup was like a warm black-pepper blast on a cold night.
My entree was a meatball tagliatelle dish so rich and inviting that I almost swooned. I had to take some home to Kip. Carter had a duck dish with ravioli. He claimed the duck was done perfectly. How often do you hear that in Austin?
Service was attentive and the bill totaled half of what we’d have paid at one of our hood’s signature restaurants.
So no Shakespearean tragedy. And no new nightspots. We found redemption at an Italian joint a few steps from our house that we had unjustly dismissed for years.
Note for future stories: This town offers better Italian food than most experts admit. Think of Vespaio, La Traviata, Siena. Sure, they aren’t on every corner, but there’s enough to keep me saying: “Grazie!”