La Vie en Rose

We didn't storm the Bastille, but, make no mistake, things got pretty raucous.

Bistro Bobette was hosting those determined to celebrate French independence while eating and drinking well - people such as moi - although I did opt out of the waiter race scheduled hours earlier. I'd say it was because one can't spend an entire day celebrating the storming, except before the night was over, I met someone who did.

The bartender appeared quite happy to see me, a guy from Philly offered me a seat next to him and Le Figuier Rose seemed like the ideal pink with which to toast France.

Philly and I got to talking with a woman who gets to travel the world because her Dad's job is setting up wind farms and anytime he's doing it somewhere interesting, off she goes. Next up is Peru, but tonight she regaled us with her two trips to Australia.

Some of the best show and tell came from the bartender who shared that the chef had asked him what beer they could carry for tonight that was blue, white and red. Naturally, he suggested PBR, the people's beer of Richmond, but the best part was the video he showed me of the kitchen staff shotgunning PBRs in the back alley under the celebratory Bastille day banner.

Almost as good was his saga of the broken crepe maker, a potential disaster for a busy night in a classic French restaurant, but they adapted by rigging up what he called a "redneck crepe maker" by fitting the top part over another heat source - it wasn't pretty, I heard - and voila! Les crepes!

Before long, a favorite couple arrived to join the party and Philly moved to the end of the bar so we could sit together. After ordering duck rillettes along with a cheese and charcuterie board, conversation began ping-ponging around the bar as we ate with our fingers.

Since it had been a while since I'd been to Bobette, I was tickled pink (or was that the Figuier?) when the Gentleman from Upstate New York arrived and sat down next to me. We'd met years ago at this bar, but it had been far too long since I'd enjoyed some quality conversation with him.

He was the one doing the double dipping, having eaten lunch at Bobette earlier today, but he lives nearby and is such a regular, he can be counted on to eat there three or four nights a week, admitting that if they served breakfast, he'd consider doing all three squares there on occasion.

Conversation turned to restaurants - Southbound, Galley, l'Opossum, Roosevelt - and vacations, because the Gent was just back from his lake house and Philly was headed up that way Friday.

In walked another Bobette regular, the gentleman from Virginia in a suit and red tie, as traditional a southerner (read: churchgoer) as I've met at Bobette, although fortunately he has a whip smart sense of humor he wields often. Ordering the same Le Figuier as we were drinking, he raised his glass and began the toasting.

Out walks the chef to greet his guests, although I knew exactly what he wanted from me. Presenting a cheek and pointing, I delivered pink lip prints to both. After some Franco-American banter, I pointed to the nape of my neck, telling him I was wearing perfume brought to me from his hometown of Paris.

"My wife used to wear that!" he said, inhaling deeply near my hair while I pointed out that I was not his wife.

"I'm going to close my eyes and pretend that you are," he said suavely. We laughed about his introduction to PBR earlier this afternoon. I'd heard he'd moved from the city to the Avenues and inquired about his garden, knowing full well he must have one. He beamed just talking about it.

The bartender entertained us with stories and photos from his vacation in Colorado, a highlight of which had been an extended afternoon at a butchery selling over 160 kinds of locally caught meat. We're talking antelope, moose, buffalo, you name it. By the time they finished their man meat feast, they'd run up a $300 tab. I'll bet that was some outstanding eating.

Next to arrive unexpectedly was the friend whose lifestyle screams "conspicuous consumption," although he's currently trying to downsize by giving away stuff he doesn't actually use as part of a life simplification process.

When he spotted me, he made a crack to the bar at large about how I probably wasn't going to speak to him because it had been so long since we'd been out together, but instead I just feigned not recognizing him.

He took the seat recently vacated by the NY gentleman who'd left too soon and tried to get in my good graces by reminding me that he'd just last week invited me to go see Bill Maher with him, an eleventh hour offer I'd had to decline because of existing plans.

"But you were the first person I thought of to ask!" he insisted. Note to men worldwide: no one wants to turn down a $90 ticket but no one wants to be asked at the last minute, either. I introduced him to Pru and Beau with one of my favorite stories about him.

This is a man who created an Excel spreadsheet of the 77 qualities he wanted in a woman and then began dating (always telling the women on the first date that he would never marry or have children with them), checking off requirements along the way. He stopped when he met a woman who had 52 of the 77 and they've been together now for 14 years.

He'd come directly from his cocktail class, completion certificate in hand, so I had the ultimate surprise for him. Since we hadn't gotten together in months, he was unaware I'd begun drinking cocktails. His jaw dropped and he let out a heartfelt, "NO!?"

Yes. See what happens when you stay away too long?

Meanwhile, I moved on to a perfect summer salad of watermelon, heirloom tomatoes, Feta and greens, the same one the New Yorker had eaten and praised earlier (granted, he's also trying to lose a few pounds and give his liver a bit of a rest...such a smart man, that one) and it was easy to understand why after one satisfying bite of such fresh flavors.

In the tradition of Holmes regularly chiding me for my lifestyle choices when we go out (he rails against my lack of cell phone, refusal to watch movies on TV and the length of my bangs), tonight Pru decided to berate me for my 22-year refusal to use air conditioning as well as my green velvet couch which she considers hot and uncomfortable.

I'm noticing a pattern. No one seems willing to accept me as I am.

The cocktail king and I discussed Portland because he wanted a full accounting of where we'd eaten (by the way, he keeps a spreadsheet of his many restaurant visits also). He gave me props for Ned Ludd and Swedish restaurant Broder, saying the latter had been their best meal in all of the Rose City.

When he left, it was to go to a cocktail pop-up at Osaka, while we went back to witty repartee with anyone willing at the bar. Within moments, 22-year old A. had taken his stool, making for my fourth seat mate of the evening.

I do so love playing musical bar stools.

Uninvited, he didn't hesitate to join the conversation as he inhaled his steak frites and we debated our next course: sweet or savory? Pru announced that she wanted spinach while Beau and I put in our votes for frites (Pru insisting on curry ketchup) and chocolate mousse. For good measure, we also got the chef's housemade strawberry ice cream.

It was the spinach that got Alex excited. "That is so awesome that you're comfortable ordering spinach for dessert. Go for it! Do what you want," he enthused. Like Pru needs to be told to do what she wants.

It was about that time that I noticed that the music had gone quiet and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a restaurant meal without music. Pru asked the bartender to correct the situation, which he did immediately, observing that she hated to hear people chew.

"I know, I hate loud chewers," A. roared and Pru joined in the rant, calling it one of her pet peeves. "It's like a symphony is going on in their mouths and I don't want to hear it!"

"No, no, not a symphony, because I would be okay with that," Pru corrected, "It's just that unpleasant noise. Like that sound when people kiss, I hate that sound, too."

It was clear these two were soul mates.

Because I didn't have a dog in this race, I was just happy when he left because he was a shouter and my position right next to him left me vulnerable to his volume.

The evening's last addition was a beer-drinking chef who'd just closed his won restaurant and come directly to the Bastille Day festivities. It worked out well as Pru began to plan Beau's upcoming birthday dance party (the birthday boy wants to play Twister and I think that sounds like a terrific idea) because he could guide her to choosing a day when he was free to attend, having missed her last soiree.

By the time it was decided that sleep was in order, we were the last four people standing. The chef had already claimed his good night kisses from me and gone home. Bastille Day was over.

I'm going to close my eyes and pretend it's not. GWAR Bar, anyone?