It’s a pretty well-known, widely accepted truth that the quickest way to a reporter’s heart is through her stomach. Booze and caffeine are important, of course, but at The Indy, we set our clocks to the free food schedule. Some may call it bribery, but the fact remains that we’re all here on deadline days, fingers fueled by pizza, bagels, and burgers and fries (that’s Tuesday noon, Wednesday 8 a.m., and Wednesday noon, respectively). In a recent stroke of genius, I singlehandedly resuscitated flagging attendance at the Wednesday-afternoon edit meeting by instituting a rotating treat-provision policy; enthusiasm for these meetings has increased in direct proportion to calories consumed. Last week’s cookies-and-ice-cream-sandwich combo had our spirits-or, more accurately, blood sugar-so high that we actually managed some enthusiasm.
So it should come as no surprise that when I received Premiere Events’ Evite to that night’s Epicurious at Eos, I accepted immediately. “An adventure for your palate,” the invitation read. “Join us monthly as we feature top chefs and premium wineries presenting their favorite selections in an intimate environment.” The event got rolling at 6 p.m.-perfectly timed to preempt the inevitable post-meeting blood-sugar crash-and promised wines from Buttonwood Farm Winery and eats prepared by Mississippi-born, University Club sous-chef Clay Bowen, recently sent knife-packing on Bravo’s Top Chef.
Strolling into Eos during daylight hours was a novel experience: Phenomenally revamped into a whitewashed, sophisticated space and flooded with late-afternoon summertime sun, the Anacapa Street bar oozed the vacationy vibe of a Mediterranean hideaway. When in Rome :
I wandered into the courtyard, collected my wine glass, which was promptly filled with Buttonwood’s sauvignon blanc, and made my way to the food. No sooner had I (oh-so-daintily) scarfed down the first of several Prosciutto-wrapped shrimp than Bowen appeared, bearing a platter of crawfish-remoulade-filled endive leaves and a round of fresh honeycomb for the cheese plate. Sun-mellowed peeps sipped, mingled, and munched, while Spencer the Gardner provided the tunes and my date managed to talk Bowen out of a bottle of his family’s secret-recipe barbecue sauce, which somehow found its way into my purse. I stuck around until the sun went down, eventually making my way home, my belly full, my soul happy.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I heard there are some brownies in the kitchen.