Romantic. Candlelit. Dark. Intimate. Underground. Romantically licking cheese and chocolate off of a tiny fork. Not your typical bar-associated phrases, but I have to say that Geja’s (voted most romantic restaurant in the city) is home to one of my absolute, most favorite, mahogany bars.
I don’t go to the legendary fondue restaurant on Armitage Ave. for romance, cheese or chocolate (the latter two are unusual for me to forgo); I go for the quiet bar where I can just sit and drink…I mean, think.
I’ve been going to the bar at Geja’s for years (just ask Carlos or Luis – my bartender buddies who know how to hook it up); ever since I was a post-collegiate, fledgling writer/actor who needed some liquid assistance with her essay-composing and monologue-memorizing. Was this the typical study hall (complete with 34 by-the-glass wine offerings) for most fresh-out-of-school, 22-year-olds: no. Typical of me: very. I’ll never forget my first venture to the subterranean bar/restaurant/romance joint. I was trying to write an article and I was on a very tight deadline. I was getting nothing done in my brutally cold apartment and my little rascal of a dog was driving me nuts. I shoved my Norton Anthology of Shakespeare (the aforementioned monologue memorizing), my Parliamo Italiano language book (I was studying Italian at the time), my novel du jour and my Apple iBook into the ever-recognizable Big Brown Bag (Bloomie’s is my favorite and I was way too young for a briefcase) and headed to the quietest restaurant I knew.
When I walked downstairs, past the tuxedo-clad waiters, I immediately noticed just how tiny the bar was. In the very back corner, a round high-top table was sitting vacant. It seemed to have a sign on it that clearly read ‘Erica Sits Here.’ I plopped my desperately-needing-to-work ass at the table and popped open the iBook.
This was the beginning of a beautiful, beautiful friendship. Me and Geja’s, me and Carlos, me and Luis, me and their ridiculously extensive wine list. I swear, I’ve never been as productive as I was that night. Maybe it was the quiet flamenco music in the background or the smell of romance and fondue oil in the air. Maybe it was the three complimentary glasses of wine that those darn bartenders kept bringing over. They probably felt sorry for the chick in the corner, eyeglasses halfway off her nose, furiously typing away as February fell outside the window. Whatever it was, I go back whenever I need to drink. Ugh, I did it again…I mean, think.
Go any night of the week (1/2 price wine bottles on Monday) and say hi to Carlos and Luis. Tell them I sent you. Just don’t steal my corner table.
