Romantic setting and heavenly fare make Tryst worth trying

It requires a certain intrepid mindset to march into a restaurant called Tryst, sidle up to the bar and announce, "It's just me." But a few nights ago it happened. The two men and three women who were already seated there stopped watching the Twins manhandle the Yankees to get a load of their new barmate. Unimpressed, they returned to their drinks, their cheeseburgers, and each other.

Nobody appeared to be paired off: There weren't any wedding rings, and more than once, one of the two guys eating together would look away from the TV mounted discreetly in the corner of the bar and over at the two women to his right. But alas there didn't appear to be any actual trysting at Tryst -- or any plans to, either. After a few minutes, the bartender said goodnight to his girlfriend, who finished her wine and said she'd see him later. This made it official: Together might be the new alone.

On a weeknight, at the start of the playoffs, and in the middle of Arlington, this might be the loneliest place on earth. Not even the soundtrack could disagree. Nina Simone ("I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl") followed John Lennon ("Starting Over") and Patsy Cline ("Walking After Midnight"). By the time an Al Green song showed up, things had gotten too sad to remember which one it was.

It could have been worse. There could have been actual couples canoodling in the main dining room, showing off their love. But empty, you can really appreciate how romantic the space is. It's large and intimate (the ceilings are high, but not too high) and bathed in what an old-school Casanova might call "mood lighting." The bar is brighter and the wood oilier, which makes it like eating in a well-stocked den -- or, if you're still feeling lonely and a little bit fancy, in something Edward Hopper painted.

Should you wind up on a date (lucky dog), this seems like an ideal stop. Apparently, this same spot has been home to two other restaurants, but were they as lovely and invitingly understated as this one? Was the bartender as nice? Were the two duck-stuffed crepes blanketed in hot gorgonzola and teamed with a beet salad as good? Was the pork chop as heavenly?

Eventually, everybody else went home, and George the bartender made conversation ("You a Sox fan?"). But it was obvious, after he'd covered the liquor bottles in cellophane, run the last set of glasses through the dishwasher, and apologized for it being too late for dessert, that he was ready to join his woman, wherever she was. So he watched his final diner settle the bill and wander alone out into the night.