I don't often make the rounds on Saturday night.
But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.
I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.
The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.
Not much I can do about my girl parts.
We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine
The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.
We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.
Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.
Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.
A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.
After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.
If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.
One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.
Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.
We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.
Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.
We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.
Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.
All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.
Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.
We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.
The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.
When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.
With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.
But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.
Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.
Showing posts with label conmanderie de peyrassol rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conmanderie de peyrassol rose. Show all posts
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Sunny with Empty Bottles
It's the best possible thing to come home to after my walk: a lunch invitation.
Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.
The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.
At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.
She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.
Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.
"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.
Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.
Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.
And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.
The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"
Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."
A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"
Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.
When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.
Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.
Yea, right.
Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.
They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.
I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.
They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.
But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?
Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.
It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.
My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.
Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.
Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.
Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.
"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.
Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.
I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.
They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.
Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.
After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.
By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.
I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.
Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.
Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.
The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.
At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.
She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.
Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.
"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.
Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.
Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.
And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.
The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"
Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."
A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"
Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.
When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.
Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.
Yea, right.
Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.
They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.
I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.
They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.
But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?
Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.
It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.
My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.
Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.
Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.
Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.
"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.
Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.
I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.
They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.
Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.
After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.
By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.
I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.
Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.
Friday, April 27, 2012
A + B = C
It's a dilemma: where do you take a food-loving friend when he visits from out of town?
Our original plan to meet at 2:30 had been pushed forward to 5:30 and by then our options had changed a bit.
After meeting at my apartment (because how can you truly know someone until you've seen how she lives?) I showed him my Jackson Ward digs and we headed out.
Unsure where to begin given the limitations of Restaurant Week, my decision was made when he said he was craving a Negroni.
I threw caution to the winds and took him directly to Bobby at Bistro 27, knowing he'd supply something Negroni-like without being merely a Negroni.
Bobby delivered and my friend acknowledged that the beautifully orange and unique concoction would please even a non-Negroni lover.
Score one.
Just as the masses began arriving, we moved on to the Roosevelt so that I could show him how we do it Richmond style.
My favorite bar stools were empty and we slid into them like they'd been reserved for us while my companion began checking out the new-to-him space.
As I'd hoped, the all Virginia wine list pleased him as much as it does me, and he was amazed at the wine pricing.
He went with the Gabriele Rausse Rosso and I predictably began with Virginia Fizz.
If you can't celebrate seeing a D.C. friend with some bubbles, it's time to reevaluate that friendship.
No reevaluation was required.
He was enraptured with the menu, as pleased with its creativity as its pricing.
After last night's feast of two bellies, I bowed to his choices for tonight's meal.
He chose Lee's fried chicken slider, the chilled cucumber, avocado and buttermilk soup with jumbo lump crabmeat and lemon oil, and baked South Carolina polenta with slow cooked egg, grilled asparagus and stewed tomato.
According to him, and he's a pro, a vegetarian dish is the best measure of a kitchen's capabilities.
It took only one bite of the slider for him to start rhapsodizing about it; he thought the simple white roll was perfect, noting that a D.C. restaurant would have gone for a fancier roll (brioche, perhaps?) and killed the slider's beautiful simplicity.
Pshaw, I said, I've had that slider to start brunch just because it's there.
The soup's island of jumbo lump crabmeat gave some heft to the delicately flavored dish, while the egg imparted a richness that belied the vegetarian dish's simple ingredients.
I get such a kick out of taking first-timers to the Roosevelt and watching them fall in love with it all.
That's probably why I keep doing it.
Like those before him, he was charmed by the feel of the room, bowled over by the wine list and menu pricing, impressed with the music, loving the ambiance and friendly vibe and reveling in the lack of pretension.
Yea, yea, just another night out in River City.
Actually it wasn't because we hadn't gotten together for months, meaning we had lots to share, both ancient history (lockers and short skirts in high school) and more recent (young editors and hometown arts districts).
As sunlight gave way to evening, he noted the change in the room's feel and we started considering dessert options to go with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
Like anyone who lives north of northern Virginia, he couldn't resist the siren song of the Coca Cola cake and I had to admit I'd never had it.
It took barely two bites for the Coke flavor to register but actually it was the frosting I liked best.
My friend demurely kept his bites to a few while I ravaged the cake in that way I tend to do when I like a sweet.
I attribute that trait to my mother, who always taught us that no matter how full you are, there's always that little corner of your stomach empty for dessert.
By the time I finished the Coca Cola cake, there wasn't a centimeter of my stomach left empty for anything.
Score two.
Given the need for the out-of-towner to hit the road soon, we made one last, brief stop at Secco, presuming we'd missed the restaurant week crowd.
We had, although the bar was still hopping.
I dug into the secret stash, getting a glass of Domaine de Bagnol Cassis Rose after tasting its bone-dry minerality and seeing it as the ideal way to end my evening.
My visitor chose Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose so as not to duplicate my choice while we snacked on fried chickpeas and Gorgonzola-stuffed fried olives.
Not because we needed to, but because they're bar food of the highest order.
Hell, we could even justify the chickpeas as protein and believe it.
Leaving just as the Byrd let out, Friend commented how much like a university town it felt with people everywhere on the sidewalks and music being played just down the street.
Oh, this old town? We've had it for centuries.
Score three.
It's really no dilemma at all. Take a visitor to the places I like and if they like me, they'll like my favorites.
And if not, they never have to invite me up for dinner again.
Bet I get invited back up.
Our original plan to meet at 2:30 had been pushed forward to 5:30 and by then our options had changed a bit.
After meeting at my apartment (because how can you truly know someone until you've seen how she lives?) I showed him my Jackson Ward digs and we headed out.
Unsure where to begin given the limitations of Restaurant Week, my decision was made when he said he was craving a Negroni.
I threw caution to the winds and took him directly to Bobby at Bistro 27, knowing he'd supply something Negroni-like without being merely a Negroni.
Bobby delivered and my friend acknowledged that the beautifully orange and unique concoction would please even a non-Negroni lover.
Score one.
Just as the masses began arriving, we moved on to the Roosevelt so that I could show him how we do it Richmond style.
My favorite bar stools were empty and we slid into them like they'd been reserved for us while my companion began checking out the new-to-him space.
As I'd hoped, the all Virginia wine list pleased him as much as it does me, and he was amazed at the wine pricing.
He went with the Gabriele Rausse Rosso and I predictably began with Virginia Fizz.
If you can't celebrate seeing a D.C. friend with some bubbles, it's time to reevaluate that friendship.
No reevaluation was required.
He was enraptured with the menu, as pleased with its creativity as its pricing.
After last night's feast of two bellies, I bowed to his choices for tonight's meal.
He chose Lee's fried chicken slider, the chilled cucumber, avocado and buttermilk soup with jumbo lump crabmeat and lemon oil, and baked South Carolina polenta with slow cooked egg, grilled asparagus and stewed tomato.
According to him, and he's a pro, a vegetarian dish is the best measure of a kitchen's capabilities.
It took only one bite of the slider for him to start rhapsodizing about it; he thought the simple white roll was perfect, noting that a D.C. restaurant would have gone for a fancier roll (brioche, perhaps?) and killed the slider's beautiful simplicity.
Pshaw, I said, I've had that slider to start brunch just because it's there.
The soup's island of jumbo lump crabmeat gave some heft to the delicately flavored dish, while the egg imparted a richness that belied the vegetarian dish's simple ingredients.
I get such a kick out of taking first-timers to the Roosevelt and watching them fall in love with it all.
That's probably why I keep doing it.
Like those before him, he was charmed by the feel of the room, bowled over by the wine list and menu pricing, impressed with the music, loving the ambiance and friendly vibe and reveling in the lack of pretension.
Yea, yea, just another night out in River City.
Actually it wasn't because we hadn't gotten together for months, meaning we had lots to share, both ancient history (lockers and short skirts in high school) and more recent (young editors and hometown arts districts).
As sunlight gave way to evening, he noted the change in the room's feel and we started considering dessert options to go with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
Like anyone who lives north of northern Virginia, he couldn't resist the siren song of the Coca Cola cake and I had to admit I'd never had it.
It took barely two bites for the Coke flavor to register but actually it was the frosting I liked best.
My friend demurely kept his bites to a few while I ravaged the cake in that way I tend to do when I like a sweet.
I attribute that trait to my mother, who always taught us that no matter how full you are, there's always that little corner of your stomach empty for dessert.
By the time I finished the Coca Cola cake, there wasn't a centimeter of my stomach left empty for anything.
Score two.
Given the need for the out-of-towner to hit the road soon, we made one last, brief stop at Secco, presuming we'd missed the restaurant week crowd.
We had, although the bar was still hopping.
I dug into the secret stash, getting a glass of Domaine de Bagnol Cassis Rose after tasting its bone-dry minerality and seeing it as the ideal way to end my evening.
My visitor chose Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose so as not to duplicate my choice while we snacked on fried chickpeas and Gorgonzola-stuffed fried olives.
Not because we needed to, but because they're bar food of the highest order.
Hell, we could even justify the chickpeas as protein and believe it.
Leaving just as the Byrd let out, Friend commented how much like a university town it felt with people everywhere on the sidewalks and music being played just down the street.
Oh, this old town? We've had it for centuries.
Score three.
It's really no dilemma at all. Take a visitor to the places I like and if they like me, they'll like my favorites.
And if not, they never have to invite me up for dinner again.
Bet I get invited back up.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Granita Absent, Friends Present
Friendship's the wine of life ~ Edward Young
It was the best ten-hour birthday celebration ever. A girlfriend picked me up for a drive to Charlottesville, giving us an hour or so to spill our guts and anticipate our adventure as we wound our way through twisting mountain roads.
We started at Blenheim Winery, not because it's owned by Dave Matthews, but because it came highly recommended to us.
Honestly, I was amazed to learn that DMB fans make pilgrimages to the winery, even those not partial to wine. As our host agreed, that's downright silly.
Our host was charming, providing humor, information and a personal take on what we tasted ("This is how I'd do it if we were at my house"). The blue tick hound was almost as personable, but not as well spoken.
He shared the winemaker's preference ("Fruit always drives the bus") and, my personal favorite, a taster's take on the wine ("So enticing one could date this wine"). We enjoyed immensely, leaving with three bottles.
From a panoramic view of the mountains and vineyards to the downtown mall, we meandered our way to the C & O for dinner. Talk about an institution.
The staff was still shell-shocked from graduation weekend and fourteen-hour shifts, but welcomed us warmly to the bar that time left behind.
I drank Chateau Ducasse Sauvignon Blanc while my friend snapped bar pictures and made sure everyone knew it was my birthday ("Thank you, sir. Who are you?").
After a salad of Boston lettuce and Pommery mustard vinaigrette, I ordered the marinated jumbo lump crab with shallots, poblano peppers, pickled green tomatoes and mint granita.
Delivering my plate, our server said, "Somehow we lost the mint granita since yesterday. We won't charge you for this dish."
Did I feel the absence of the mint granita? I did not, but perhaps I was distracted by the sheer size of the lump crabmeat and the tartness of the pickled green tomatoes.
We'd so enjoyed our winery/dinner combo that we asked a nearby local for a recommendation for the next winery to check out and he provided; we'd already decided on the next restaurant. I can see this becoming a regular thing for us.
Driving back, my friend checked with me several times. "Are you ready to party?" Am I ready to drink good wine with friends and talk? Why, yes, I think I am.
Arriving at Secco, I was surprised to find eight friends already arrived (we were a tad later than planned). Before long, another eight or so arrived and then still more. All told, there were about thirty people in and out and adding to the merriment.
I'd invited some people, my friend had invited some people and we ended up with a nice crowd of restaurant types, musician types and people from my past. I ordered a glass of the peppery Peyrassol Rose and owner Julia said, "That's your bottle." Oh, my.
The most flattering part of it all was those who never stay out late who came and stayed out late.
The friend who said he'd come for one and then had to leave who stayed for three.
The one who doesn't even come to shows that start late and hung till almost midnight.
She who doesn't go out on weeknights who came and stayed.
The friend who bypassed Mongrel and wrote a happy birthday message to me on the bottom of his flipflops.
The favorite chef who came after working lunch and dinner.
It might have been the most flattering birthday ever because of the stellar company coming and hanging. For a change, I actually had too many people to talk to.
At one point, the sous chef emerged from the kitchen with a lit cake covered in chocolate mousse and there was singing before devouring of a chocoholic's dream dessert.
I made a wish for the second time today (same wish) and blew out the candle.
As the bartender noted, "Friends, wine and chocolate, what more could you want?"
The answer popped out of my mouth before I could self-edit. "I get off at midnight. Let me check with the wife and make sure it's okay," he responded with a salacious grin.
What I meant was, lucky me, I don't need to wish for more good friends.
It was the best ten-hour birthday celebration ever. A girlfriend picked me up for a drive to Charlottesville, giving us an hour or so to spill our guts and anticipate our adventure as we wound our way through twisting mountain roads.
We started at Blenheim Winery, not because it's owned by Dave Matthews, but because it came highly recommended to us.
Honestly, I was amazed to learn that DMB fans make pilgrimages to the winery, even those not partial to wine. As our host agreed, that's downright silly.
Our host was charming, providing humor, information and a personal take on what we tasted ("This is how I'd do it if we were at my house"). The blue tick hound was almost as personable, but not as well spoken.
He shared the winemaker's preference ("Fruit always drives the bus") and, my personal favorite, a taster's take on the wine ("So enticing one could date this wine"). We enjoyed immensely, leaving with three bottles.
From a panoramic view of the mountains and vineyards to the downtown mall, we meandered our way to the C & O for dinner. Talk about an institution.
The staff was still shell-shocked from graduation weekend and fourteen-hour shifts, but welcomed us warmly to the bar that time left behind.
I drank Chateau Ducasse Sauvignon Blanc while my friend snapped bar pictures and made sure everyone knew it was my birthday ("Thank you, sir. Who are you?").
After a salad of Boston lettuce and Pommery mustard vinaigrette, I ordered the marinated jumbo lump crab with shallots, poblano peppers, pickled green tomatoes and mint granita.
Delivering my plate, our server said, "Somehow we lost the mint granita since yesterday. We won't charge you for this dish."
Did I feel the absence of the mint granita? I did not, but perhaps I was distracted by the sheer size of the lump crabmeat and the tartness of the pickled green tomatoes.
We'd so enjoyed our winery/dinner combo that we asked a nearby local for a recommendation for the next winery to check out and he provided; we'd already decided on the next restaurant. I can see this becoming a regular thing for us.
Driving back, my friend checked with me several times. "Are you ready to party?" Am I ready to drink good wine with friends and talk? Why, yes, I think I am.
Arriving at Secco, I was surprised to find eight friends already arrived (we were a tad later than planned). Before long, another eight or so arrived and then still more. All told, there were about thirty people in and out and adding to the merriment.
I'd invited some people, my friend had invited some people and we ended up with a nice crowd of restaurant types, musician types and people from my past. I ordered a glass of the peppery Peyrassol Rose and owner Julia said, "That's your bottle." Oh, my.
The most flattering part of it all was those who never stay out late who came and stayed out late.
The friend who said he'd come for one and then had to leave who stayed for three.
The one who doesn't even come to shows that start late and hung till almost midnight.
She who doesn't go out on weeknights who came and stayed.
The friend who bypassed Mongrel and wrote a happy birthday message to me on the bottom of his flipflops.
The favorite chef who came after working lunch and dinner.
It might have been the most flattering birthday ever because of the stellar company coming and hanging. For a change, I actually had too many people to talk to.
At one point, the sous chef emerged from the kitchen with a lit cake covered in chocolate mousse and there was singing before devouring of a chocoholic's dream dessert.
I made a wish for the second time today (same wish) and blew out the candle.
As the bartender noted, "Friends, wine and chocolate, what more could you want?"
The answer popped out of my mouth before I could self-edit. "I get off at midnight. Let me check with the wife and make sure it's okay," he responded with a salacious grin.
What I meant was, lucky me, I don't need to wish for more good friends.
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