In 2019, I went on a ten-day trip with my friends Teresa and John. Teresa’s sister-in-law had just completed a documentary on the Peace Corp called A Towering Task, and it was premiering at the Kennedy Center. I was leaving Seattle to move to Portland in a few weeks, and it was our last vacation together departing from the same hometown.
Our plan was to spend a few days in Washington, D.C., and then take the train up to New York City for a few more. Teresa, who is incredibly organized, is the type of person who thinks of doing things like making reservations months in advance to go to fancy restaurants in fancy towns. I love her for that. We were staying in Harlem, and she made reservations to eat at James Beard Award-winning chef Marcus Samuelsson’s restaurant Red Rooster Harlem on Monday night.
I watched the news clips that day and saw Oprah was on CBS Mornings promoting her new book. I remember thinking, “I am in New York, and Oprah is so close!” It was the same feeling I got eating at Ben’s Chili Bowl and thinking about President Obama eating there too. I know, I know. I am a complete romantic. Not about love, but about things that foster these nostalgic feelings in my heart.
As soon as we walked into the restaurant that night, we could feel the energy in the Red Rooster was electric. You could not believe the band that was there that night! They were incredible. They were transitioning from Motown to Lionel Richie to Beyonce without breaking a sweat. We couldn’t believe our luck. We thought we were in for a sleepy Monday night in New York.
As we waited for our table, we spied a man wearing a brightly colored shirt, grey chinos casually rolled up above the ankles and a straw hat. He was flitting about the crowd like a butterfly, taking pictures and smiling from ear to ear. It was Marcus Samuelsson. In his restaurant. On a random Monday night in September. How was this even possible? Shouldn’t he be filming a Netflix special or starring as a judge on Top Chef?
No, he absolutely should be here with me.
It’s probably no surprise that dinner was incredible. We usually go all in when dining at destination restaurants; this was no exception. We had the ribs. The mac and cheese. The cornbread. The bucatini picadilly. And a random bottle of Lambrusco developed by Raekwon of the Wu-Tang Clan. I really should spend more time documenting my meals at fancy restaurants. But no one really cares what you eat for dinner but you.
In the middle of our meal, John excused himself to the restroom. When he returned, he looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Guess who I saw in line to use the bathroom?” he said. Now, I hate these guessing games and am terrible at them. It’s New York City, and it literally could be anyone from Madonna to Alec Baldwin. Anyone’s guess.
“Oprah fucking Winfrey,” John continues.
“You did not see Oprah fucking Winfrey in line for the bathroom,” Teresa replied.
“I swear to God.” John is a notorious prankster, and Teresa and I looked at each other with deep skepticism.
“WHAT-ever,” I said, rolling my eyes.
As soon as I was about to return to my meal, a woman in a white suit – an angel – started walking toward our table. Sure enough, it was Oprah fucking Winfrey. She leaned in, put her hand on John’s shoulder, and said, “Thank you for letting me cut the line.”
Now, I am not proud about this, but my immediate reaction was to let out a shrill, high-pitched sound that I am pretty sure only canines could hear. Was it a scream? Was it me calling out Oprah’s name? I don’t even know. This poor woman gave me the same look she probably gives every exuberant fan.
Yes, I know you watched me every day after school when you were a kid. Yes, I know you have a lot of feelings right now.
Yes, you should calm the fuck down.
Oprah then kindly raised her hands to give me a high-ten. Instead of returning the high-ten like a normal person, my immediate instinct was to grip onto her hands and interlace my fingers with hers. Why do I do these things? It’s so embarrassing. But like the benevolent individual she is, she went with it.
And sweet Jesus, she had the softest billionaire hands in the world.
