Compare and contrast: Drinks at Bottega, dinner at AVIA

After pilates Friday, we four trotted up Washington St. to celebrate at Bottega–just drinks on the veranda. (Is that what you would call it? Is “porch” better? “Deck” perhaps?) We were celebrating Friday, sure, but we were also celebrating the first week of Pilates Napa Valley in the Yountville location–in a charming upper room at Villagio. We sipped our drinks (mine was a Rosini–prosecco and organic strawberry puree) and munched on almonds and olives.

A couple sat down next to us and the woman gushed, “Did you see him?! Did he talk to you?!” She meant Chiarello, of course, whom we had seen–but hadn’t given him a second thought. “He’ll come around again,” one of us said. The woman seemed disappointed. (Her enthusiasm was refreshing, though–I’ve been here too long, I guess, to flutter over the well-known locals.)

The spot was lovely. I’ll go again–for a drink or for dinner, definitely. Our stomachs were growling, so Robin and I decided to drive back to Napa and give the new AVIA a try. The decor is funky with touches of the grand. The service on this particular evening, however, was straight up funky.

There was a private event on the terrace, and it’s possible, isn’t it, that the best and the brightest among the servers were involved there. We walked through to the restaurant and Waiter 1 said, “Hey, ladies! Can I get you guys a glass of wine? Beer?” His greeting bore a tinge of pickup line. Sure, it was 9:30 pm and Waiter 1 was feeling casual, but his behavior was in such stark contrast to the service at Bottega that Robin and I just blinked and said we would like dinner, too.

We sat by doors open to the outdoors–a prettified alleyway. (Really, quite clean and un-alley-like.) Waiter 1 started chatting about something personal while I perused the menu. He wouldn’t stop. Robin was gracious and chatted lightly with him, while I rudely tried to decide on my meal. Finally Waiter 1 left to allow us time to review the menu. Robin and I decided to share a caprese salad. She would have the scallops for her main and I would have the tempura chicken with ginger sauce. (I craved something fried, okay?)

Waiter 1 seemed busy behind the bar. There were two other couples in the restaurant, each pair discussing Earnest Things over drinks. Then Waiter 2 wafted by, charging out the doors directly behind us for a breath of fresh air, or so it seemed. He said something amiable and dorky to us and we laughed kindly. Maybe he was now our server? (Confusing, as there was a whole wall of open doors and why would he choose the doors behind us if he didn’t intend to wait on us? And, after all, Waiter 1 had vanished …) We placed our order. He seemed confused at first (“Oh, uh, sure I can help Waiter 1 out.”) but no matter, our drinks arrived and eventually, so did our salad. And then our main courses.

Black pepper seemed like a good idea. The next time Waiter 2 happened by, Robin asked him for a little black pepper. Waiter 2 (who I suspect may have actually been a busser?) must’ve not heard the bit about “a little black pepper” because the salad and scallops were smothered in pepper. I scraped the pepper off the exposed, thick slice of tomato before thinking of taking a picture. Above you see the well-peppered scallops.

Robin sneezed and sneezed. But we ate (with wide-eyed incredulity) and decided that there are just a few kinks still being worked out. Ever determined, I will be back–to view the terrace, at the least.

(Photos courtesy my iPhone.)