We needed to pick someplace special this month because December is Charlie’s birthday month. Plus, since 12/30 turned out to be the one evening most convenient to us both, our dinner would also need to double as a New Year’s Eve celebration. As exciting as visiting a completely new restaurant is, it’s also inevitably risky, so to ensure a pleasant dining experience for our double celebrations, we decided on Manuela, which, while a wholly new gustatory territory for me, is a restaurant already familiar to and approved by Charlie. In fact, he says it’s one of his favorite restaurants, and for my part, I was beguiled by Manuela’s self-promotion as “an organic restaurant in the Arts District.” As a health-conscious consumer, I reserved our table with much eagerness for the organic fare I would enjoy at Manuela.
A minor moment of hesitancy before our dinner: Just after midnight on the date of our reservation, I received a text from the restaurant. Now, I’m not used to receiving texts this late, so an anomalous tone coming from my phone at midnight immediately puts me on edge. I assume these reservation confirmation requests are preset to be delivered at certain times, and I’d recommend that Manuela consider whether it’s necessary to send out their texts at such an alarming hour.
A (relatively minor) moment of frustration as I wandered around the block looking for Manuela: I’m kinda over this “If you know, you know, and if you don’t, you aren’t cool enough for our establishment anyway” attitude by restaurateurs that lead them to dispense with any signage for their venues. Circling the block, I knew I was close, possibly just outside the building that housed the restaurant, but as I walked around—on foot, wearing brand new boots of stiff leather—I couldn’t find an opening to walk into or so much as an arrow pointing to an entrance. Even Camphor, the reputedly exclusive restaurant next door, identifies itself in neon cursive. In the end, it was the Camphor valet who directed me toward Manuela’s entrance. Even once through the entrance, it’s not immediately evident that one has ventured into a restaurant. As a matter of fact, the building is a “complex” that apparently is also home to an art gallery, which may explain why the area just inside the entrance can’t seem to decide what type of business it is. The fenced-off space within which the actual restaurant is bounded, however, is quite nice; not particularly upscale, but spacious and attractive in a rustic-chic way. On this night, a cheerfully adorned Christmas tree added a festive touch. Luckily, when we arrived at the restaurant (at 6 pm) it was only about 1/3 full, and there were plenty of seats around the bar area up for grabs.
A rather major moment of annoyance a few days after our dinner: Charlie and I had split the bill, so the amount that each of us would be charged, including tips, should’ve been just over $100. Yet, upon checking his bank account Charlie was charged $212 (the credit to my account appears correct). What the hell? He has since called Manuela and left a message regarding this error. As of this writing, the mistake has yet to be resolved.
