An Elegy for Ludivine

805 North Hudson Avenue, Oklahoma City, OK. The bar was off to the side. Dimly lit after dark, most lamp-spilled light was absorbed by the ancient brick walls or bounced from the burnished brass bartop’s rugged patina befitting a joint that served cocktails conceived of 100 years ago but still in fashion. Old fashion.

Low wattage sconce lights hung among a few small two-top tables, giving a slight glow on the faces of couples or friends — or maybe friends that might become couples — sharing sazeracs and classic daiquiris and, most importantly, quiet adult conversations. This was not a party bar, although things could get raucous during one of the weekly toasts where some luminary or generally interesting local person was invited to lead the crowd to revelry.

Although you could certainly order food while talking to your bartender over a martini (50/50 gin and Lillet vermouth, orange expression, no olive for me thank you very much), the room next door was for dining. It sparkled a bit more than the bar meant for nocturnal beasts (my kind of people) but was still moody. The service was always impeccable, without a fluorescence that screamed “WELCOME TO LUDIVINE HAVE YOU BEEN HERE BEFORE LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE APPETIZERS.”

No, Ludivine was a grown-up restaurant, and the first place I recall in the OKC scene’s millennial-driven era focused on the movement known as “farm-to-table,” which means — hell, I don’t even need to define it for you by now because it’s almost just expected. Talented chefs Russ Johnson and Jonathon Stranger were classically trained in French cooking, but, 14 years ago, mixed those skills with local ingredients to create a uniquely Oklahoman experience.

The open kitchen allowed you to watch the chefs at work. One of the greatest date nights of my life was getting to sit at that counter on an anniversary and engage with the people making our food. The extra snacks we got hooked up with were the crispy crust of the creme brûlée. You could always count on getting an excellent wine pairing with your meal.

At the time some viewed Ludivine as snooty, as it did not charge Braum’s prices. Generally, it would be about a hundo bill when we went on a date, which meant I didn’t eat there often on a freelance salary. But if that place was in any other American city — Dallas, Chicago, New York, L.A., whatever — it would cost twice as much.

My fondest memories are of the bar in the Hudson Ave. location (Ludivine would later move to 10th St.). I helped open Nonesuch, which lay virtually next door, and every night after work we would follow the sidewalk south for a drink. Ludivine had $5 boilermakers, so I’d ease the stress and tension of a long day with a cheap beer and a shot of rye whiskey while we talked about what went right or what went wrong during service, or better yet, just talk about anything else in the world. The Ludivine staff were our comrades; we tried our damnedest to provide the best possible experiences for our guests, even if, at times, they didn’t understand what we were doing.

The transition to its 10th St. location felt a little bittersweet, even though it was only a block away in Midtown. The original incarnation was an anchor, one of the first restaurants to open up in a part of OKC that was largely vacant after the 1980s recession, and doing something nobody else was doing. The old building felt so lived in you could almost talk to the ghosts of souls that died long before you were born. But as soon as I walked into the other location, it felt like I was in the home of a great-grandparent I never met. The decor was different, yet somehow the ghosts traveled with them.

Time has not been gentle to the restaurant industry, and this can also be an elegy to all the other local places that have either closed or struggled in the last few years. Maybe this is melodramatic, and I’m generally not sympathetic toward capitalist institutions, but when a place where you built so many memories fades away it can feel like a friend or friend’s animal companion has died.

The one constant on Ludivine’s seasonal menu, which at times changed daily, was the bone marrow luge. You would scoop out the delicious marrow, the most concentrated beef flavor imaginable, then pour a shot of Jameson Irish whiskey down it as the chaser. If you find another place that offers it, pour one out for this legendary local spot and thank its creators and staff who carried our city’s culinary scene forward.