Matthew Bourland
Google
The sun shines, but we're a few layers of Dan Gilbert concrete away from direct rays. Sunburnt sports fans have been buzzed for hours.
We step into Chenin and are immediately in front of the point-of-sale tablet. A relatively tall man with millennial tattoos hands us a menu. The bar's logo on the menu appears to have been printed with a letterpress, or their printer sucks. Either way, we're unknowledgeable about wine, and being unknowledgeable about wine, we ask what he's been enjoying.
He provides what we know are great descriptions of the wine, but we can barely hear them. It's because the music is too interesting.
We're overwhelmed by the space itself. Small, simple, unpretentious, and enveloping us. It's bright outside, but Chenin's level of dim lighting tells you that it doesn't matter what time it is; you can eat or drink anything on the menu in any combination, it doesn't matter. With this lighting, it was always 6:44 PM and 1:23 AM at the same time.
Mans tells you about three wines in 30 seconds. You've been inside for 66 seconds. Mans offers you a sample. You have no clue what of. A white wine that tastes "good" in some sense and "summery" in another.
There are 7 seats at Chenin. Placing an 8th chair would cramp everything. There are two strangers seated with a seat in between them. I want to sit with you, but I can't ask the two spaced individuals to move, they're both buried in their phones like many of us are in public. Honesty, I'd rather stare into space and intermittently observe.
Actions happening amongst Chenin staff:
- Pouring wine
- Cracking Budweisers
- Clearing glasses and (re+)filling waters
- Stepping behind a mysterious curtain
- Scooping ice cream into small silver coupes
- Removing pizzas from ovens and adorning them with toppings
- Preparing sandwiches with large sums of butter and mortadella
- Communicating with one another in subtle, cute ways
- Being generally kind and accommodating
The jerseys leave. Our time standing is over. Standing is a fine, normal mode of existence in Chenin, but we're seat people now.
At some point, Westside Gunn starts playing, and it doesn't feel out of place.
We've drank one glass of wine. You and I settle on Budweiser next. Order olives. I tell you that not liking olives is a silly. Grow up. The olives are served warm. The olives I ate in tourist traps were room temp. The pairing of Budweiser and olives is odd. Who cares. They're very prompt in refilling the waters here. The people who work here are all hot. Don't think about that; it's 3 months into opening, and they don't hate all the customers (yet). Perhaps they never will.
The ice cream
is good.
We get the potato sesame ice cream, which is indeed a fast-food-influenced, sophisticated delight. I cannot tell if the lil bits I'm tasting in the ice cream are potato themselves or sesame seeds, because they feel soft and not so uniformly shaped. I believe these are microns of potato dancing along my palate.
Either way, the ice cream is good and not in a "wow, quite a bit we have going here" way but an "I would get this again here by myself."
A pizza is pulled from the oven, checked on each side and then strewn from its metal housing onto a larger board for dressings. Chenin's world is constantly unfolding in front of us.
Cheese is added in cute dollops atop the deep red rectangle. Operator begins with a dollop in each quadrant, establishing the four pieces to be cut later, and then steadily fills space until, at least for this particular pie, there's beautiful contrast between the brown crispy crust below, the deep red top, and the white diamond dollops of cheese.
The diamonds melt, an intentional transformation and a statement about food as a minor art struggling to stand the test of time. Effect is heightened when you watch the pie come from the oven, get dressed, and land in front of your grubby little hands.
Chenin's honesty, immediacy, and openness feel real.
You pay cash, we go to Paramita Sound. Thanks Chenin, I'll be back with a different associate or by my lonesome.