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| - Eating at Cabo, or anywhere in NoDa on a Saturday night, is a bit of an adventure. Our most recent was on an uncharacteristically snowy evening in Charlotte, which lent the night a sort of mystical austerity, as if magic were ordained by the decent of the twinkling flakes falling all around us.
Our posse of seven put in for a table, which is no easy feat for a restaurant Cabo's size. We were told it'd be forty-five minutes, which delighted us, since that afforded time for at least six or seven glasses of wine at Dolce next door.
Scarf-ensconced, snow-laden, half-lit and stumble-happy, we received a text that our table was ready and made way for the gloomy labyrinth of NoDa's most prestigious fish taco waystation.
Echoing lively with an always handsome mix of dirty hippies, uptowners slumming it in the "artsy" area, and cleverly-paired retirees done up to the nines, the Cabo dining room reminds me of the background setting in a rom-com where the couple has its first hilariously awkward fight. It's somehow both romantic and unsettling... but in a good way.
Our tables were still being cleared and arranged when we walked in, so I spearheaded a mission to obtain one quick round of Dos Equis Ambers from the bar. The mission was a success. Lime-treated frothy brews in hand, we took to our table, not nearly sized for seven people, elbows bumping, thigh to thigh, alcy breath exchanging hot between us. I looked across to Huxley, that soul-stealing mermaid-haired goddess of mischief and misreason, and toothed her a goofy grin. "I've never felt closer to all of you," I said.
Our waitress came up, god bless her, pale and long, sheer gray cotton draped snug and purposeful around the rolling chalice of her body, shoulders high and firm, chopped blonde chin-cut springing around the soft features of her face... AJ kicked my shin under the table and shot me a wide-eyed, closed-mouth stare. He knows my type.
Huxley sneered.
With rich voice, full and lively, our waitress greeted us, accepted my immediate request for more beers, and then sold us, vividly, on the day's specials - southwestern style fried oysters appetizer (it has long been established that I and Mine are suckers for oysters in any condition), rainbow trout wraps with black-beans and a spicy sauce, or some whitefish taco that I'm pretty sure she called "Drunk Fish". We ordered several of each.
In a brilliant flash, she was back with the beers. I doled them out with jittering hands, all aslosh and messy. We toasted the night, "To fish tacos and our semi-annual snowfall!" As glasses clanked together, we heard a crashing thud against the front glass of the dining room. Outside in the street, a band of scrawny hipsters were engaging in an epic snowball fight. Our waitress walked past and startled at the noise; she turned toward us and laughed. "We should be out there with them," AJ said. He motioned to the waitress. "So should you!" I nodded in enthusiastic agreement. She giggled and said she was totally into it... but we were too focused on food and drink to actually break out into an impromptu snowball fight at that moment, unreasonably attractive waitress participant notwithstanding.
While we waited for our entrees, we gorged on oysters and Dos Equis, and told each other, plainly, how badly and intensely we were all in love. Whilst perusing the margaritas menu, Nellie and I had a gruesome conversation about our respective past experiences that have led to our present inability to conceive of anything containing Tequila.
And then, the food. Oh glorious frozen twinkling mad and descending all around us. Assaulted by flavors, the trout, dear god that trout... it fell apart in our mouths like a shattered dream... and the drunk fish, drunk fish as it was, moist and white and flaky pure, all dressed up in spice and glaze, oozing, flowing, plates exchanges and forkfulls shared, cheeks stained and scarves like napkins, and flickering votives and cream stuck in beards and delicate fingers soaked through by the morsels they gripped.
Hux reached across the table, fetched my chin, and with the most deft and subtle movements of her spiderlike fingers, tipped away some flake or smear that I had smattered about my face. "I'm always a mess," I said. She smiled that cutting smile. "That's why we work together; I'm always flawless."
Our gray-wrapped wedge-cut goldilocks came back. "How should I split this up?" she asked.
"Look at us, doll," I said to her before glancing back around the table. "We're all in this together."
She grinned a pearly grin. "So, that's one check then?"
I nodded.
Outside, drunk and full and spinning wild, I held the door for my men and my ladies. As I turned to face the street, I caught a cold, hard ball of fresh-packed snow right to the left eye socket. I cursed and coiled over. As my vision cleared and sensation returned to my cheek, I looked up to see Huxley laughing maniacally and dusting snow off her palms.
"Thanks for dinner," she said.
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