Fire on Ice
Four years ago, I found myself unexpectedly alone. Spending an evening in an empty house was sometimes unbearable. And so, I happened upon the Bar at Mediterraneo in Westlake Village. Roberto would craft for me the most beautiful Old Fashioned. The aroma of citrus and bourbon would cling to the air as he used a torch to melt the oils of an orange peel over a solitary cube of ice.
There was something very comforting about sitting at the warm rustic bar, football on, surrounded by locals. It was friendly, but also elegant. I began to bring friends there; my go-to was the octopus with potatoes— perfectly charred and tender, nicely balanced with the acidity used to dress perfectly boiled potatoes. If I was really hungry, the pork shank with polenta never failed to make me moan with pleasure. In a cooling-off time of my life, I found warmth. I was sad when I learned they would be closing for a remodel. I couldn’t imagine why they needed to do that. Maybe I just didn’t want more change in my life.
I waited impatiently and was among the first to have a reservation when they finally reopened. I didn’t expect to love the change, but I did. It was not just Mediterraneo that had undergone a renovation, I had as well. Comfortable in my new life, I loved the new, brighter decor. It matched my new outlook on life. I clambered up to the bar and was happy to see Roberto’s familiar face serving me fire over ice and the sweet smell of magic.
Then COVID came, and all the doors closed. All the new-ness I was celebrating, the company I was building, the new friendships I was cultivating ... they all went away. Everything was cold and quiet. There were too many goodbyes. I was worried about Mediterraneo. They had already been closed for a long time for the remodel and I worried they wouldn’t be able to withstand another closure.
As things began to reopen, though, I saw their wide wooden door ajar and breathed a sigh of relief. When I received this writing assignment, I knew I wanted to visit Mediterraneo. I wanted to give back a little bit of what they gave to me. I didn’t plan ahead, I just showed up. And on a warm California autumn day, I enjoyed my favorite salad on the patio with a Fragola—or maybe two. I told the manager why I was there and she invited me to the bar. Roberto was not working that day, but she asked Miguel to make my favorite cocktail.
As Mariah began snapping photos, I explained how I came to know Mediterraneo and why it mattered to me. Miguel nodded his head. Yes, a good bartender knows. As he let the flame melt the oils of the orange peel and it dripped deliciously over the ice cube, that familiar scent wafted through the air ... like driving through the back roads of Ventura County when the orange trees are in bloom. But more importantly, as I looked around the bar at everyone watching Miguel, I felt the warmth wash over me, once again.
