Van Gogh is Bipolar

It was a long drive to dinner. We were having difficulty looking for Van Gogh is Bipolar, and our meryenda-deprived stomachs were starting to grumble. With the help of a friendly soul, we found the elusive restaurant serenely tucked away in an obscure compound in UP's Maginhawa St. The only telltale sign that one-half of the stark white duplex is a restaurant is the small group of 40-somethings seated around a couple of garden tables, quietly talking over cocktails and tea. The Christmas lights were of no use. This time of year, the streets are filled with houses more extravagantly garbed in tinsel and lights. Nevertheless, we stepped out of the car. The sign at the door said that no shoes were allowed inside. The inside, I soon found out, was enchanting.

As with most quaint restaurants, the owner of the place occasionally slipped out of the kitchen and table-hopped. He did not inquire after our needs-- he was not a waiter. What he did was talk. First, he informed us that as a rule, diners were to make reservations beforehand in order to be accommodated. We were embarrassed, all apologies. I feared that he would send us away, but then he began talking about the place, his way of saying welcome. I have always loved this bit of the dining experience.

"This," he said, his eyes sweeping across the room, "is actually my house. I open it to diners at night." True enough, no restaurant could be more homey. Everywhere we looked, we saw a piece of personal memorabilia. Framed photographs of his family were all over the place. I tried my best not to stare at them; I felt like an intruder. The furniture were all antique-- heirlooms, perhaps. The wooden table by the kitchen window had etchings all over it. The owner later told us that those were the writings of previous visitors. I stared at the table more closely-- it appeared that everyone was eager to leave a mark.

Everything in the place, it seemed to me, had a story to tell. I was eager to find out. I wanted to ask him about the chairs; no two chairs in the place are similar. I longed to know how they came to his possession. Which were gifts and who gave them? Which ones were thrifted and for how much? Which ones were made especially for him (perhaps by a friend or a lover)?

Our own chairs were mismatched Louis XIVs. Lovely, lovely. We were seated at the center of the room, at a small white round table canopied by sheer white curtains that rustled gently with the wind. Tea-light candles cast a romantic glow across the table, making our bottle of water sparkle. Every now and then, the restaurant's resident black cat sashayed to our table, checking if we had a treat to spare. Our little spot was just perfect.

The other guests looked just as comfortable. Behind us, two girls were lazily propped on cozy multicolored floor pillows, eating from an exquisite white-washed coffee table. Behind them was a window with sheer white curtains, and beneath the curtains was a strand of tiny blue Christmas lights, framing the window like a stream breaking into two waterfalls. The scene charmed me; it looked like it belonged to a romantic movie. I longed to take a picture.

College friends were catching up on each other's lives at the table next to ours, if a little too loudly. There were about six of them, and they occupied the biggest table in the place. It was an old rectangular table, dark wood; the kind that belongs in my grandmother's house. Above was a chandelier, with shiny colorful Christmas balls dangling from its tiny loops along with the original crystals.

Paintings and sketches adorned the walls of the tiny space, hanging from thin, almost invisible, nylon strings. They were studies of people, mostly. I asked the owner if he made them, and he told me that they were given by friends. He takes photographs though, he said, gesturing to the wall behind me. They were black and white photos of a nude woman. Somewhere in the middle was a photo of a penis. Ice and I wondered if it belonged to the owner.

Van Gogh is Bipolar had a self-service policy. This made ordering food quite an experience, an adventure. Here is an account of our adventure:

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