On October 13, 2004, in an act some might consider tantamount to cannibalism (shame on you), President George Walker Bush dinned on turkey enchiladas at Dick's Hideaway, the venerated New Mexican-inspired speakeasy on 16th Street in Phoenix. The former Commander-In-Chief had worked up an appetite debating then-Democratic Party nominee John Kerry at ASU's Grady Gammage Center in Tempe. Some seven years later, the President's dinner host that evening, renowned restaurateur Richardson Browne, can still reflect profoundly on his Santa Fe-style summit with the ex-leader of the free world.
"About thirty minutes before he showed up," Browne recounts, "I got a call at home from my manager saying, 'I think the President's coming in.' I just hung up, horrified. I was more than a few Maker's Marks into my evening. She kept calling back. I kept hanging up, but it occured to me at some point that she was fucking serious, so I put on a clean shirt and came down."
When Browne arrived at his restaurant, it was everything but business as usual.
"After twenty-plus years, I know my crowd," he explained. "But I found guys in suits just sitting in the dark in the PDR (the Hideaway's private dining room) who definitely didn't fit the picture, and a few more dressed like lumberjacks- for God-only-knows what reason- ordering my staff to remove all the steak knives from the property. It was like Men In Black meets Fargo."
With things heating up inside, Browne stepped out for a little fresh air.
"Now I'm pacing in front of my own place, shaking like a leaf." Browne shakes his head over the recollection. "I'm just standing there terrified, with my plastic Solo cup of Maker's on the rocks rattling like a marraca."
In minutes, according to Browne, the advanced guard of the Presidential motorcade rolled in.
"Suddenly, at least thirty motorcycles came rumbling up the street. War wagons (armored SUVs) and police vehicles started emptying loads of manpower into the street and closing-off every route imaginable to the restaurant. By the time I noticed the protesters, the satellite trucks and the sharpshooters lining the rooftops across the street, I was pretty much out of my mind."
Then the Presidential limo targeted Browne, pulling up at his feet.
"So, Bush pops out," Browne takes a deep breath, recalling that breathless moment. "He's with Laura and Mr. and Mrs. McCain. He takes a look at me and asks, 'You alright?' I said, 'Frankly, between you and me, I'm a bit fucked up at the moment.' But he smiled, told me I'd be fine, and complimented the belt I was wearing. My belt, for Christ's sake. And for whatever reason, that relaxed me. After that, we just starting shooting the shit."
Still, Browne remembers the moment Bush walked through the front door as the most remarkable of the evening.
"The place was packed, but you could hear a pin drop. Then the President just walked into the crowd shaking hands and saying hello. He broke the tension himself. Security didn't shield him. I could have strangled him myself at any moment."
"During dinner," Browne recalls comically, "CNN tried to interview Alberto, our non-English-speaking cook, enlisting our barely-English-speaking busboy as translator. Of course, those were pre-E-Verify times, so I don't think the network skirted any existing labor laws."
After dinner, Presidential photographers snapped some pictures. A commemorative photo and official White House thank you letter were hand-delivered to Browne by an anonymous government suit some days later.
"Granted, I look a little twisted," Browne confesses, "but McCain's pained expression takes the cake. You'd think he'd just finished a prostate exam rather than dinner."
As always, Richardson Browne exercises his right to be irreverent.
"Without fail, I look at that picture at least once a day," he laughs. "It's hung over my toilet."
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