Saturday night the Reverend Mother and I found ourselves kid-free so we decided to go let it all hang out at our favorite tapas bar. Trust me, we usually get funny looks when we actually say that as opposed to typing it out.

Tapas are small plates of hot or cold Spanish appetizers that you typically order in a series. We like Solera in downtown Minneapolis because the tapas are a creative treat both in flavor and in presentation. While portions are small they are packed with flavor and interesting combinations of meats, vegetables and spices. Generally you choose several from the menu and they are delivered one or two at a time so you can fully appreciate each plate. One time when my wife and I went there we played a little game: she took the cold menu and I took the hot and then we’d each order something without telling the other what was coming. We went three or four rounds like that, sharing each dish as it came and deciding who had made the best choice (believe me, there were no losers).

We didn’t get the inspiration to go to Solera this time until late in the day so when we called there was no way to get a table in the restaurant. But, we were told, there was plenty of non-reserved seating on the rooftop patio. Since it was a very pleasant evening we decided to leave our cozy little suburb to go downtown and dine al fresco. Of course, you’ve first got to change clothes to go downtown, especially on Saturday night. I don’t have much that will pass for urban cool, but I put on some khakis, a blue silk camp shirt (untucked, natch) and my Margaritaville loafers — sans socks! The Mall Diva had given me some “Joe” pomade for the new ‘do but I already had a stylish head of hat-hair going on from mowing the lawn earlier in the day and I didn’t want to become too irresistible since the restaurant is directly across the street from The Amsterdam Hotel, the mecca of gay hospitality in Minneapolis (perhaps “Mecca” and “gay” shouldn’t be linked like that). The Reverend Mother did her part to save some souls, wearing those snug jeans I like that could make Elton John look twice. Also, since it was less than 85 degrees, she wore a jacket.

When we got up to the patio there were only a few tables already occupied so we had no trouble finding a place to sit. Despite being on the roof the view isn’t much to write about, but I will anyway. The four or five foot wall blocks any sight-lines to the street if you’re sitting down, but you can see the top of the Target Center, a parking ramp, some duct-work for the restaurant and the big white screen on the patio where Solera shows movies after dark. You also can’t see the two-story billboard for the Amsterdam that features four cute guys cuddling; I guess it’s up to you whether that’s a positive or a negative. Regardless, it ain’t Applebee’s.

We decided on the $25 “Tapas for Two” combination from the menu; six different appetizers thoughtfully portioned into even numbers so that you don’t have that awkward, “No, dear, you take the last shrimp” moment. The first plate was some barbequed potatoes, very tasty and tangy. Then our black-clad waitress brought us some small grilled sausages and grilled chicken strips in a green chipotle sauce, all on skewers and served on a bed of rice with raisins and mint. The chicken was especially delicious; I told my wife that the chicken was too spicy for her and she wouldn’t like it, but somehow she was onto me and didn’t fall for it. Next up was a plate of lightly-battered, skewered shrimp the size of small bananas and a bowl of what I think was either acini or risoni pasta and cucumber in a minty sauce. I’m not much of a cucumber fan, but I surprised my wife by eating and enjoying this as well.

I looked around right about then and saw a waitress bringing a plate of what looked like miniature hamburgers to another table. “Oooh, those look good,” I remarked to my wife, so I was delighted when our waitress appeared with a similar plate as part of our course. These were actually chorizo sausage patties with a nice cut of roasted red pepper on top, served on mini-buns. Very tasty indeed, and my puppy-eyes prevailed on my wife to give up half of her sandwich, for which I ceded the remainder of the cous-cous and cucumber dish. The finale was a plate of seared tuna slices. They looked rather raw in the middle, but smelled and tasted great and we’ve since had no ill effects.

We were too full for dessert, but still had a fun evening of great food and better companionship. If you’re looking for something to spice up your dining out experience, go “tapas”!

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Buffy brings the beau home —

Girl brings home suitor. Father tries to frighten suitor. For real or for jest. With harsh words. An intimidating stare.

Pa used arms the size of tree trunks and a highly arched brow. A friend’s dad employed over the counter drug tests. “Here. Pee in the cup.” The old codgers from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers used guns. Lined up the boys and whipped out the rifles.

Mine used dynamite.

T was the first and last guy I ever brought home to meet the family. I was 25. We’d been together for two years and it was his first visit to Appalachia. I should have been shocked by it all. I wasn’t. Not that I expected my father and his pack of dark-eyed brothers to blow up the mountain, close down the only road out and block any chance of escape for a good portion of the day. But I didn’t not expect it either.

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In my life I’ve had maybe five hairstyles. When I was a tyke my father bought some electric hair clippers, but the only style he ever learned was a buzz cut, which was what I had until about first grade (and for a short, traumatic time in 8th grade).

In first grade I made a stylish leap forward — a “regular boy” cut, parted on the left with a slap of Brylcream to make a debonair wave back from my forehead. Eventually I ditched the Brylcream and let the hair fall over my forehead, permitting the classic head-snap, shoulder-shrug move to clear it out of my eyes. By the time I got to college (and out of my father’s sight) I let my hair grow out to about shoulder-length and even tried the part-in-the-middle thing. My hair was naturally wavy and drove the girls mad with jealousy but not much else.

I’d grown out of that by the time I went corporate and was back to the low -maintenance, part-on-the-left, just-over-the-ears-and-collar look. It was pretty much wash-and-wear, with no mousse or gel (or moose-and-squirrel) and definitely no Brylcream. It must have been ok because I was able to induce the not-yet-Reverend Mother to marry me. When I went to get my hair cut on the morning of my wedding day the stylist (perhaps at the behest of my bride) suggested I try something different.

Sure, on the single-most important day of my life, let’s take a flyer — maybe it’ll keep people from paying too much attention to the rented tux. On that day I converted to a no-part, combed straight back and moussed look, and I stuck with that for the next 19 and a half years. It may have even been stylish for a year or two of that period, but it was always neat and tidy and responded well to my comb. My hair was so used to that grooming that even if I skipped a day without the gel it would still go back that way; my wife called it “memory hair.”

Naturally, life with a hair-stylist in the family brings a certain dynamism to the home that means change is inevitable. Last week I sat down in the Mall Diva’s styling chair for a cut and mused that maybe I should try something a little diff- … well that was about all I needed to get out before the she went into a blur of hands, clippers and scissors. Fortunately she knows a few more tricks than my father, but I ended up with short hair on the sides and a little bit longer than that on top. Instead of moussing it straight back however, I was told to put the gel on my finger tips and poke it into my hair, then tousle everything back and forth once or twice, leaving it standing up and pointing in every direction.

Wow. I figured people would think I’d either paid $90 to have my hair professionally zhooshed — or they’d think I’d just gotten out of bed. It’s kind of hip, kind of now…and by the end of the day it’s a little droopy. My daughter says that is because I’m just using styling gel; I need to switch to pomade. Pomade? I could see myself going into the drug store: “I’m a Dapper Dan man, I don’t want Fop, I want Dapper Dan!”

It also feels kind of funny, especially when the breeze blows. When I catch sight of my shadow or my reflection I reflexively reach for my comb to get the strays back in formation before I remember there are supposed to be strays; if I’ve done it right I’m supposed to look like a durian fruit, or Sonic the Hedgehog. I leave my comb in my pocket, though truth be told I could probably just leave it at home.

I’m getting used to it, though, and no one’s said anything to me about it. They probably figure it’s just some mid-life crisis and they don’t want to get involved.

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