Lots of my people were at Bistro Bobette tonight.
When I arrived at the bar, my girlfriend was the lone barsitter, but the familiar faces just kept on coming.
Bubbles (a Vouvray dewmi-sec) started the evening and I followed that with a venison pate complemented perfectly with cranberry relish.
My theater boys arrived and we discussed "My Fair Lady," which I'd opted out of last week; they considered this an error of judgement on my part, heartily recommending the new production at the Empire.
I offered them tastes of my pate which so impressed the critic that he later told me, "I had my first deer tonight because of you."
Always glad to help broaden a cute boy's horizons.
The owner came over and we coerced her to tell us how she and the chef had met, which turned out to be a great story.
There's a lot to be said for the hand of fate.
Somehow that led to a discussion of how I need to do do something about my singlehood, with both her and my girlfriend telling me what I need to do.
Well, that led to the male half of the couple date joining the discussion. A logical sort of a guy, he once compiled a spread sheet of the 77 qualities he wanted in a mate.
His girlfriend, who rated the highest (52 out of 77), was sitting next to him.
He joined the discussion by throwing out questions about my deal breakers, my requirements and my negotiables.
My girlfriend said it was like the e-Harmony questionnaire, only much better because he focused on more important issues.
Things like, what are your three biggest eccentricities? Would you carry a cell phone if a partner asked you to? Could you date a vegetarian? A non-drinker?
They all concluded that I need to give up on Richmond and look in D.C.
I concluded that I wanted to talk about anything else.
When I saw a restaurant owner and her paramour come in, I went over to give her a hug and say hello.
Her man insisted on the same, saying, "Don't we know each other well enough by now?"
You just never know who's a hugger and who isn't.
After a bit, the theater boys got ready to leave for a party, but not before disclosing that one of them had a midnight date.
"You know, late night take-out," the other one whispered to me, making me laugh. "Or should I say late night delivery?"
On my way back from the bathroom, I was greeted by the paparazzi in the form of the owner who was trying to get a picture of me because of my gray tights.
She was unsuccessful; every picture had my eyes an evil white color that made me look like a demon.
I suggested she just shoot my legs and save herself the trouble.
Maybe that's how I should do it: a picture of my legs and a list of my eccentricities.
I'll post fliers all over town and see what happens.
Better, yet, I think I'll wait for the hand of fate. I was never any good at spread sheets anyway.
as always a pleasure having you at the bar and always welcome you to be here...
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