At the outset, it looked like another lazy evening on the couch with my book. In the end it was a damn near perfect night.

We thought we'd stop by the Reef for a bit. We didn't even bother to ask the doorman if the roof deck was open, because the answer is always "next week." But as we surveyed the dining room, a friendly, heavyset, brown man at the bar suggested we try out the roof deck. "Aha," we said, "it must be next week!" We walked out of the blue dining room and up the stairs through coral-colored walls, out into the sun.

The view is not breathtaking -- you can see the tip of the Washington Monument and the top of the Capitol dome, but not much else. (You could see more of the Capitol before the condos on 18th Street were built up so high.) But the deck is high above the so-familiar street below and gives a different perspective on nearby buildings. "I feel transported," E said. Indeed. I felt lethargic; the lethargy of vacation, not of routine.

There was an air of excitement: We'd happened upon the deck on its first night open. Everyone who'd had a hand in building it, and everyone they called, was beaming. Brian, the man behind the Reef, was everywhere at once, welcoming with his in-laws, carrying his daughter, serving beers. Behind the bar Sue, tall and freckled and deep-voiced, smirked slightly, but not unpleasantly; she looked as if she'd bust out laughing any minute.

The Reef employs staff with a cultivated edginess to their look. The black-clad doorman remains a little aloof as he checks your ID. Black-clad waitresses wear T-shirts that say things like "PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES" and display more tattoos than uninked skin. Black-clad, friendly bartenders keep your glass full. And strangely, there are always 2-3 black-clad, headsetted men prowling the floor, murmuring into tiny mouthpieces. What are they talking about? Why is it necessary to keep the ratio of patrons to floor-prowlers so low? I don't know what they're for; maybe they to provide an atmosphere of exclusivity, maybe they are the oil in the well-oiled machine that is a bar/restaurant.

On the roof deck they seemed both more and less out of place. On a Mexican-style patio, patrons in linens and sundresses chatted while a grim, lean man with a long black ponytail, black tattoos, and a large silver pentagram belt buckle watched over them. And I felt strangely protected by him, as if he were armed, as if we were on a compound in a more dangerous place, and he was keeping the barbarians out.

We sat, and we sat, and the people kept coming, and shaking hands, and admiring, and congratulating. We sat on through the code-red sunset and watched the full moon rise. The tarp, a temporary shade roof over the bar, was lifted off and everyone clapped. We ordered green garlicky food, bowtie pasta with arugula-basil pesto for me, and garlic-potato-scape soup for E. We mopped our plates clean with olive bread.

On the way home, I could think only one thought: "I feel so satisfied."