I’m halfway through my six-ounce pour of Brett SMaSHY when I spot him. He’s petite, chipper, and quite frankly, adorable. His umber tuft looks soft. His black, beady eyes catch mine and we share a moment—a split second of acknowledgment before he scampers up the base of the enormous pecan tree protruding from The Common Table’s covered patio, and disappears.
“We call him ‘Asshole’,” my server explains of the puny squirrel I’d just encountered. “He sits in the tree and screams at people.” She scoops up my empty bowl, perviously teeming with jambalaya and andouille sausage, and vanishes as seamlessly as the rodent.
I’m dining solo. It’s one of my favorite ways to unwind after a long day or a weekend crammed with social activities. I’m completely unarmed; no books to bury my nose in. No flimsy newspapers to hide behind. No Moleskins in which to spew my poetic thoughts—that usually diminish into to-do lists. It’s just me. And some beer. And the squirrel.
I swill what’s left of the funky American IPA and wait for my second course to arrive. I’m treating myself to The Common Table’s “Pour Man’s Dinner;” four courses and four six-ounce beer pairings for $29. The restaurant has been running the special every Monday night since June 2012, but I’ve only just recently become a fan.
Executive chef Rodman Shields plans a different menu each week and this time it features Cajun-inspired dishes with hoppy brews from The Collective Brewing Project in Fort Worth.
My waitress reappears with a tiny bowl, brimming with black-eyed peas, yellow corn kernels, peas, diced red bell peppers, and purple onions. Two tortilla chips dart out from opposing sides of the vessel like shark fins circling a kaleidoscopic mound of vegetables. The accompanying brew is Collective’s Petite Golden Sour. It’s bright and complements the simplicity of the dish.
I remove one of the chips and use it as a spoon to scoop the veggies into my mouth. I’m not even two bites in when the squirrel reappears. This time he’s in the rafters above me. He snakes in between the wooden beams—his feathery tail twitching as he approaches. I pause and think of all of his potential motives as he nears me.
Is he coming over to sniff me? Does he see my messy, uncombed mane as a potential nest? Is he after my remaining tortilla chip? Is he a rabid jerk who wants to bite my arm and send me to the ER just for fun? The waitress did say he’s an asshole, after all.
He’s finally directly overhead. I hold my breath and look up. His glassy, charcoal eyes hold mine. This has officially become a staring contest. “Oh, great,” I think. It’s Monday night and I’m dining alone and playing juvenile games with a squirrel on a restaurant patio. Is this adulthood? I don’t care. I. Will. Not. Lose. This. Challenge. A couple with a French bulldog approaches and he scurries away. I consider this a personal win.
My third course arrives. A mound of creamy grits topped with Cajun-seasoned shrimp and lean Tasso ham. The beer, Urban Funkhouse, is true to its name. The earthy saison breaks through the paprika and cayenne. It’s very complementary.
I lose myself in the dish and catch my foot subtly tapping along to Jackson Browne’s “Somebody’s Baby” which is playing overhead. It’s moments like these that make dining solo worthwhile. I exhale a pepper-laden gust of breath and take a sip of beer. “This is so relaxing,” I think.
*Clunk*
I look up from my plate. It’s probably nothing.
*Clunk* *Clunk*
Okay, what the heck is that?
*CLUNK*
A partially-gnawed pecan comes hurling down from the sky. It’s him. The sore loser squirrel is back and this time he’s armed. Fortunately the patio is covered so I’m mostly shielded from the fuzzy jerk’s antics. But a few nuts manage to break through the barrier. I’m a sitting duck.
The sun is setting as my waitress clears my table and brings out the final course: dessert. I’m pretty stuffed by this point, but have enough room for a few bites. I’m presented with a spiced applesauce cake dripping with rum glaze. The confection is accompanied by Collective’s Wood Folk. Like the other pairings, the American wild ale goes well with the dish. I eat a third of the cake, finish the beer, and ask for the check.
It’s dark out now and the pecan attacks have come to a cease-fire. I assume the squirrel is curled up in a nest somewhere, dreaming of his next raid.
I look forward to returning.
