Celebrating friends, Emerald City style.

Last weekend I hosted a lovely dinner party for eight very close friends; all couples, two of which are recently married, one of which I actually married. The purpose of the dinner was to celebrate hallmarks, simple and significant, that each couple had achieved over this past year. I absolutely adore hosting people in my home and often expend considerable effort to create a lush, lulling, and dare I say seductive, sensory experience for my guests.

Recognizing the importance of feeding the eyes as well as the palate, I centered the dinner table in my Midtown flat to take full advantage of the picture-perfect view of the Space Needle and Queen Anne, (oh, and the monorail,) my windows afford.

For my tablescape I began with rich fabrics printed with Oriental-themed designs in rusts, golds and greens and then littered the center of the table with various candle-holders of punctured metal, smooth wood and glittering glass of coordinating colors and objets d'art that further enhanced the Thai-inspired evening: seashells, over-sized leaves, even a carved elephant. Also on the table, I had matching place cards for all of my guests, seating each person next to someone other than their spouse.

My guests arrived pair by pair and were greeted by the aroma of Siamese spices wafting from the kitchen, each couple bringing with them bottle after bottle of bubbly libations. For dinner, I made a light, simple shrimp stir-fry with mushrooms, tofu and colorful bell peppers; salmon swimming with snap peas in a spicy red curry sauce; a Thai omelet to temper the heat; a pot of hearty yellow beef curry, thick with turmeric, cumin and coconut milk; and finally, two-and-a-half pounds of fresh halibut marinated in ginger, garlic, chillies, lime juice and garnished with a bit of cilantro. As dinner was presented, the phrase that continually peppered our evening repeatedly was, "Tino, you've outdone yourself!"

When designing the seating chart I intentionally sat guests next to others who share aligned interests, some of which include: art; architecture; academia; botany; literature; mountain climbing; and traveling abroad. The conversation was constant amongst all of us and a good deal of laughter was present throughout the night as we were serenaded by the crooning of Tracey Thorn of Everything But The Girl, the catchy beats of Pink Martini and a handful of Craig Armstrong's hauntingly familiar, dramatic pieces.

Before we sat down for dessert, fruit and cheese I had all my guests reexamine their place card, upon which I had stamped a particular leaf shape, each person's leaf, aside from myself, had another pair at the table. I then had each guest with matching stamps exchange seats, affording me the opportunity to chat more intimately with the other half of my guests as well as being able to reunite some of the couples who had spent dinner apart. The result was marvelous as a new round of discussions began and even more laughter was exchanged.

We raised our glasses and toasted, several times, throughout the evening as there was so much to celebrate: civil unions, birth anniversaries, residential mergers, acquisitions of property, and ascension of corporate ladders. All in all, a successful evening, as I partook in the pleasure of being able to delight those around me and provide my grateful guests with such a memorable and enjoyable time, I didn't see it so much as having outdone myself, but rather, just doing a job well done--Thai style, of course.

Ready for takeoff.

A few days ago, a pair of friends and I landed ourselves at Vessel for a Recession Proof Mixology event featuring Aviation Gin. All three of us could recall a time when any of us were hesitant to drink anything other than a beverage containing vodka and juice from concentrate; thank Heavens for the many good bartenders who have played a role in steering us away from such amateur beverages, transforming us into "Cocktail Geeks," for better or for worse. (I like to think for the better.) On our gin-induced flight to Shangri-La, we were in good company, also present in our cabin were several of the Emerald City's first-class bartenders, away from their Capitol Hill cockpits, as well as other industry folks and media notability.

We sampled several bright and uplifting cocktails; I, of course, went for all the froufrou looking drinks in the sunset spectrum of pink and apricot. My palate was much pleased as was my field of vision. The order of truffle chips was a tasty touch, but whetted our appetite so much we only sat through a few round of drinks before departing for more substantial forage (I'm sure, due to our early departure, we missed some really good in-flight entertainment.)

The three of us descended our way down to the Harbor Steps to check out a restaurant that had recently opened. The place looked nice, the menu looked decent, and we had a friend's recommendation, but somehow the venue didn't seem to set off our radar, so we changed course and headed up into the Market.

Oddly, the early evening weather was warm and dense, the air being heavy and humid as if we were deep within an equatorial jungle. The sky began to take on a copper-colored hue, glazing the once familiar Emerald City skyline 'neath a rosy haze and heightening our anticipation of something marvelous awaiting us around the corner.

Then, a golden idea came to me and I led us through an alley, beyond the infamous "gum wall," up a hidden staircase, past Rachel (the pig) and out on a tiny terrace until we reached my desired destination with a smooth landing, Place Pigalle.

Place Pigalle is a special place. Small, comfortable, and peppered with just the right amount of class. (Perhaps it's the French influences that permeate the place?) It's perched location offers spectacular, unobstructed views of Puget Sound, who's dark blue waters began to glimmer with a bronze glint by the time we were seated at our white-linen-covered table.

Following our entrance, a pair of fishmongers navigated their way to the slender bar. Also present in the intimate, softly lit dining room were several seasoned couples, as well as a table of executives still formally buttoned-up in their well-tailored suits.

Shortly after the three of us each ordered a glass of wine--rosé for me, of course, Malbec for the Mademoiselle and Tributary for the Monsieur, a trio of Europeans entered the establishment, and instantly were recognized by the neighboring table of executives, who all rose to exchange handshakes before the Continental threesome were seated at their own, separate table.

Following a few bites of fresh-baked sourdough and the creamiest of butters, our starter courses came our way consisting of a hearty lentil and house-made sausage soup; and a light, though flavorful, halibut seviche, all of which was rather delectable.

When it came to our entrées, we could not contain our crooning as we each kept taking nibbles from one another's plate: fresh marlin medallions, lightly seared, served alongside tenderly roasted potatoes and autumn vegetables; al dente fettuccine submerged in a savory lamb Bolognese; and chipotle veal shortribs that effortlessly slid right of their bones and truly melted in one's mouth. Between the wine, the food, and the company, that night it felt as if we truly were coasting above the clouds on a decadent, culinary pleasure cruise.

Quality Time

A dear friend of mine, who I have had the serenity to have known over half my life, has spent considerable time living abroad and exploring the world. Whenever she returns to the Emerald City in-between adventures, we see each other periodically, usually at whatever party or event I'm hosting, and once in awhile we do spend time one-on-one, but those times usual end up being not as frequent as we intend. In our hearts, we know we will always be there for one another and no matter how much time or distance passes, we will see each other's bright smile sooner or later. My friend is set to embark upon another adventure in the upcoming weeks and we've agreed not to let time slip away from us and to make the most of the days remaining until then.

Last week, we brunched (at Tilikum Place,) then headed over to the Frye Art Museum, took in a bit of frankincense and Italian-inspired architecture at the much gilded St. James Cathedral, stopped for espresso, browsed books at the newly re-located Elliot Bay Book Company and meandered through the streets, both meek and grand, of Captiol Hill toward Volunteer Park.

Unfortunately, we arrived as the conservatory was closing, but the Asian Art Museum was still open for an hour so we opted for a quick visit. While at the art museum we discovered a brochure describing various lectures on Asian art with an upcoming one on the art and architecture of India. (A while back, my friend had left to visit India for a few weeks and ended up being away from the Emerald City for a few years!)

Last Saturday, we attended that lecture and it was amazing. A highlight of the presentation is that the speaker opened my eyes to spiritual and philosophical concepts that have manifested themselves in both architecture and urban design. Saturday University is the name of the lecture series and there were only a handful of others attending that appeared to be around our age, the rest of the auditorium was a significantly older crowd as one might expect to see at such an event on a sunny, early Saturday morning.

After the talk, our intellect was on fire and we kept discussing what we had just learned as we wove our way, once again, through the streets of Capitol Hill headed to a yet-to-be-determined spot for lunch. We ended up at a Vietnamese cafe and ate outside, taking full advantage of the glorious autumn sunshine. While we waited for our food R & B and Pop hits of days gone by (Beyonce, Britney, T-Pain etc.) played on an outdoor speaker and we both couldn't help but sing along (Apple-bottom jeans/Boots with the fur...) and bob our heads as we reminisced on times gone by.

After lunch, we were still hungry, for more knowledge. We made our way up to Elliot Bay Books in hopes of stumbling upon another lecture, no such luck. We reversed course and headed downtown with the Klondike Gold Rush Museum as a destination in mind. (It's the only National Park that's indoors!) Along our way to Pioneer Square we popped in to the Central Library, again in hopes of finding another lecture. One was about to start in half an hour in celebration of To Kill a Mockingbird, which also included a screening of the film, but we didn't want to be indoors for so long on such a sunny day.

We ended up at the Chinese Room of the L. C. Smith Tower (Thank you S.W.) and took in a Google-Earth-like view of the Emerald City. I pointed out various buildings and told my friend a few anecdotal stories of their histories. She shared with me childhood memories of various venues within view. The air was warm, the breeze on the 35th floor balcony was gentle and we couldn't help but linger long wondering aloud what is to become of the land beneath the viaduct, as well as what deconstruction and renewal our own futures might hold in the year to come.

Eventually, we took our leave and swiftly descended in the manually operated, 1912 Otis elevator back to earth and wandered through Pioneer Square, stumbling upon the Saturday Market in Occidental Park, before ending up at the Klondike Museum, where we read in-between the lines of the what was being presented to us and created our own narratives of the featured Sourdoughs. We did catch a short film on the history of the Yukon Gold Rush. In a particular scene they showed a line of men climbing a mountain, each with an average of 50 pounds of gear on their back. My friend and I couldn't help but remark, since they all were already in a line up the side of a mountain, wouldn't it have been more efficient if they formed a human conveyor belt and passed goods and supplies from person to person (Chinese-Fire-Drill-style,) instead of each person carrying so much heavy gear by themselves then dropping it off and having to go back down the mountain and do it all over again?

After exploring the Klondike, we made our way back downtown and I tended to a weekly floral installation, after which, we enjoyed a pair of scrumptous cocktails at Vessel (Thank you K.L.) and were treated to an array of fresh market fruit, gourmet cheeses, and charcuterie from Salumi (Thank you C.B.) With Vessel being my home away from home, it comes to little surprise whenever I run into a friend there, which I did.

After sating our thirst and appetite, we had nothing on our agenda until 9:30 that evening at SIFF Cinema, and again began to wander the streets once again, ending up at the terminus for the South Lake Union Streetcar or as most Emerald City denizens like to affectionately refer to it "The S.L.U.T.," with the "T" representing trolley. While on the streetcar we were surrounded by a rather jovial group, it appeared as if they had been imbibing. Three gentlemen and two ladies, both of whom were expecting.

"Whoa! Is that a raccoon?!" One of the guys asked, referring to the raccoon tail I recently embellished my key chain with. "What's that in your pocket?" He continued.

"Wouldn't you like to know." I slyly replied. His friends all started giggling.

"You asked for it," one of them teased him.

My curious inquisitor was tall, good looking and wearing decent designer denim. "I guess nobody wants to let a pregnant lady sit down!..." he shouted to the streetcar riders and two gentlemen sitting behind us, got up and left their seats. The inquisitor's friends did point out there were several vacant seats in other parts of the car. Then one of his friends pointed out that the inquisitor's zipper was down.

"Hey, why did you have to spoil the show?" I quipped, "I know you're pregnant and all, but there's a reason why I wasn't giving up my front row seat."

Everyone started laughing, except for the inquisitor who bowed his head sheepishly to conceal his blushing. "Awww, look, he's embarrassed," teased one of his friends.

"So, where ya going?" The inquisitor tried to recover.

"We don't know, wherever the SLUT takes us, Hooters?"

We all ended up disembarking at South Lake Union Park, but headed in different directions. I didn't realize that yesterday was the grand opening of the park. It's a cute park, with quite a bit of promise. (Might be a bit better if it had a beer garden, just sayin'...) Once we had our fill of the unforgettable fragrance of fresh fertilizer we decided to head uptown along Mercer, but somehow went under the wrong underpass and ended up at Seattle Center.

As we crossed the Center's campus we noticed tents above the Fisher Pavilion and heard live music. We went closer to investigate and it was Festa Italiana. We watched as a few couples mambo-ed on the dance floor and just marveled at how much goes on in this city in one day before making our way to The Sitting Room for another round of drinks and another little bite to eat (Thanks D.,) after which we headed over to SIFF Cinema (Thanks A.G.) where they are showcasing a series of new Spanish cinema.

The movie we saw, After, was a bit dark and intense, but quite evocative in making one reevaluate if the life they is true or not. In some ways it tied everything back to the lecture we saw in the morning on how, sometimes it matters little if what we do is deemed as good or otherwise, ultimately, the important thing is putting one's heart into the action at hand. I'm so thankful to have had spent a glorious day with the company of a dear friend and all of my heart.

An evening of seclusion.

Human beings are social creatures. That is one tenet I recall from my Sociology class. Perhaps that is why solitary confinement is reserved for the most baneful of criminals? Maybe that is why some of us execute the "Silent Treatment" to those close to us when offended? Maybe that is why some many of us are afraid of being alone?

Could it be that in our vastly individualistic society, whenever we come across a connection where we think to ourselves, "Finally, somebody gets me; they see me for who I really am," we feel we have the green light to instantly begin investing in forging an everlasting bond with that person?

Who can say for sure, what we do and why we do it? One thing I am certain of is: Seattle's Darling is a social creature. A highly social creature.

My honed powers of observation are not just limited to home furnishings, food and fine spirits. It also extends to people. How they present themselves in attire, speech, body language, movement, preferences in food and drink, geography, family history, friends and other associations. The list goes on.

As I've mentioned before, in many ways, I am a highly sensitive person. You can imagine, every so often, I have to take some time to rejuvenate my body and revive my spirit. Furthermore, whenever experiencing significant pain, my mind and my senses are easily overloaded. Friday morning when I awoke I was greeted with a dull thudding in my head and muscles that ached nearly everywhere, (apparently my wisdom teeth are coming in.) By the time I was finished with work all I wanted to do was crawl into bed, close my eyes and rest. So that's exactly what I did.

When I awoke, a few hours later, I still ached all over and decided to draw a hot bath. As I was waiting for the tub to fill, I went through my text message inbox: invitation after invitation to come out for the night; birthdays, a dinner party, other assorted parties, friends visiting from out of town, friends of friends visiting from out of town... I just wasn't feeling up to snuff to be around people and actively engaged in the moment.

Ordinarily, when at home, I have the radio on, usually tuned to Classic King FM or NPR. This night, on a much needed night alone, I just wanted silence.

Before stepping into my steaming bath, I grabbed a thick book off of a nearby shelf. One I had read, only once, but written by one of my top three favorite authors, George R. R. Martin. I slid into my nearly scalding bath and submerged myself into another world: Westeros. A land where cunning and ambition can raise one far, where chivalry can be as much of a hindrance as a virtue and very few Princesses end up marrying gallant Princes. Martin's fascinating characters exhibit so much humanness, each with their own unique voice, modus operandi and raison d'être. 

Being such a deft and crafty writer, Martin offers up an exquisite amount of detail and seems to effortlessly weave nearly infinite layers of hope (for love, family and justice,) desire (for lust, prestige and power) and intrigue (the silken threads that tie everything together) into a comprehensive, gorgeous and enthralling tapestry one can't help but to feast their eyes upon it. By the time my bathwater turned tepid, I was some 300 pages in.

I toweled off rather swiftly, slid back into bed and re-visited Westeros, with it's all-too-real inhabitants; in between chapters, I would scour the appendix to have a clearer grasp on the realm's various dynasties, family trees and associated geography and heraldry making better sense of assorted rivalries and alliances. After a few hours, when sleep finally beckoned once more, I drew the shades, put in a pair of earplugs and closed my tired, but sated eyes.

Birds of a feather...

One of my fondest discoveries in San Francisco was a quaint little bar known as Blackbird, it's in the Castro, on Market and Church and from my understanding just recently opened. It was referred to me by my cocktail-loving DJ friend, the one who was just recently proposed to (yay!)

Upon entering the establishment, I took an immediate liking to the place. A rather modern place, with a few stylistic old world elements (think along the lines of Hendrick's imagery) to enhance the venue's character and lend a nod to the era of when bourbon and gin cocktails reigned supreme. A somewhat narrow space, with concrete-gray colored walls; a few high-boy bistro tables in either window; an industrial, metal table towards the right of the entrance surrounded with an octet of institutional chairs, and an orange leather booth that ran along the left side of a pair of long, narrow, raw wood, high tables with matching institutional stools.

The bar itself was made of a heavy, dark wood, and had an antique appearance (also lined with institutional metal stools.) Suspended above the bar was a row of exposed tungsten bulbs dangling at various lengths and intervals--hmmm... notice a trend recently? (I must confess, upon my latest relocation to Midtown, I myself, installed exposed tungsten bulbs in my bathroom.) Adding even more length and vertical movement to the space, the ceiling was covered in slender boards of unfinished wood, wood that very much complimented the tables.

Blackbird's drink menu, written in black magic marker on rather large pieces of brown butcher paper (another charming touch) is hung against a perpendicular wall entirely decoupaged with old newspapers. Listed are about a dozen house cocktails, (which appear pretty impressive at first glance-until realizing about a third of them are vodka based) accompanied by a decent selection of beer and wine. (Upon a subsequent visit, I discovered they have very friendly happy hour prices as well.)

Slightly further into the space, another booth of orange leather, this time much lower and much longer, a row of square, raw wood tables and (surprise, surprise,) a bundle of industrial metal chairs. Toward the back lay a much used pool table and an ever slightly used photo booth, as well as the restrooms.

For my first drink I was torn between the Batida, which featured real coconut milk or the Dutch Courage which contained egg white. I went for the liquid courage: Bols Genever, maple syrup, egg white, lemon juice, lime juice, a dash of orange flower water and served with a sprig of mint. I was pleased at Blackbird that they measured their pours and squeezed fresh fruit for every order. Unfortunately they don't use fresh eggs, they use egg whites from a carton and I immediately could tell the difference. The yummy, creamy, frothy, milkshake-like texture I am so fond of, was just not there.

For round two I asked for a custom cocktail and my bartender was at a bit of a loss. (I'm so thankful such a situation seldom happens to me in the Emerald City.) I attempted to guide her through a beverage I had enjoyed recently at Vessel and was able to recall most, if not all, of the ingredients. She did her best, but the result was not quite exactly what I was hoping for.

The mediocrity of my cocktail mattered little for the people-watching here was spectacular. I sat at the lower booth, facing the bar, on my right, were two married European couples and to my left, a table of assorted Hipsters--boys and girls. I would watch people as they filed in; the Pretty People, the B-Gays, the Lipstick Lesbonics, the Bears, the Cubs, the Cougars, the Yuppies (yes, they still do exist,) the Daddies, the Bridge-and-Tunnel crowd (think Tavern Law on a Saturday night,) and the tourists (myself included.) I found it a bit fascinating seeing such an array of people flocking to the same watering hole, and they all were actually interacting with one another. That is something we seldom see in the Emerald City.

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A few days later I brought in my friend who was the impetus of my whole SF trip, she had just finished Nursing School at the prestigious University of San Francisco. I flew down, along with her sister, to keep her company on the drive back to the Emerald City. That day we discovered Blackbird's great happy hour. Wine $4, Beer $3 and Wells $3. She had a vodka with soda. I had a cocktail, which is not on special (High Maintenance? Maybe, but hey, I was on vacation.) This time I went with the house Negroni: Blue Coat Gin, Aperol, Lillet Rouge served with an orange twist. It worked. I have a friend in the Emerald City who loves Negronis and I know he'd take a liking to the Blackbird Negroni.

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My last venture to Blackbird I went to meet up with my DJ friend (did I mention he's recently engaged?) It was a Wednesday night, around 8 o'clock and I was a bit early. The bar was the most crowded I had ever seen. After patiently waiting to place an order I was informed they were sold out of their house specialty, The Martinez. So I just went with a whiskey sour. $3. I didn't realize it was still happy hour. Perhaps that explained why it was so crowded?

It took awhile for me to secure seating, but I was in no rush. One of the long wooden tables near the door was eventually vacated after which, I slid into the high booth and just drank in the scenery while sipping on my sour. My friend arrived, sporting a new haircut and took a seat beside me. That wasn't the only thing new he wore. He had a ring on his left hand. I was so excited! Turns out it's a Teno.

For the sake of old times, my friend ordered us a pair of Last Words and we plotted our plans for the night, where we might go for dinner and further drinks and where we'd end up for some dancing. Well, our plans evolved as we met some lost couch surfers. My friend told them of a nearby hill, Corona Heights, where you can hike up and take in a fantastic view of the city. I was feeling a bit adventurous so after filling ourselves with some burgers nearby we stopped off at the corner store and grabbed a bottle of Maker's (and a can of coconut water,) and set off for the hill.

Though pretty steep, especially for an urban hike, the climb wasn't bad at all and well worth it. Once we reached the pinnacle we were able to take in an amazing view of the entire city. We found a boulder to perch upon and broke open our bottle of Bourbon. As the hours went by, the more we revealed to one another: we spoke of love, lost and found; of family; of life, past and present and the possible future; all the while we watched the city slowly become shrouded in layers of fog and mist until we found ourselves at a loss for last words, surrounded by a sea of glowing brume and an empty bottle of whiskey.

Trophy hunting.

After several hours of traveling on a plane, a train and an automobile I found myself in the fog-shrouded part of San Francisco known as Inner Richmond. A friend of mine, originally from the Emerald City, has recently finished Nursing School; her sister is scheduled to fly down and meet us we are all driving back together with her belongings. It was shortly after midnight when we rendezvoused and I was thirsty, (the beer on my flight having long since worn off.) Fortunately, my friend lives walking distance to a number of bars, I chose the one with sexiest name: The Buckshot.

The place was packed, much like any dive bar on a Saturday night at midnight. I ordered a shot of Fernet and a pair of PBRs (hey, "when in Rome...") My friend and I found a little spot between the shuffleboard table and the skee ball machines, where we could indulge our curiosity and observe the crowd. Underneath the gaze of countless mounted hunting trophies (so many and so varied Linda D., herself, would drool at this collection,) we took note of the various cliques, each group of drunkards easily distinguished by the uniform attire they wore, whether it be of an athletic jock-like variety, urban gangsta', or bridge 'n' tunnel mini dresses with heels too high to gracefully strut in paired with obnoxiously monogrammed Coach bags (sorry, at that price point there are a lot more labels to choose from and not all of them are made in China.)

I suggested we migrate towards the dance floor for better viewing of the various weekend courtship and mating rituals occurring all around us. We wove through the boisterous mass and were able to find a pair of stools to perch upon and continued our analysis of the crowd. (And quite honestly, we were also checking out the boys.) Apparently I got caught checking out a tall, dark and handsome guy, with a great build and chiseled jaw line, his eyes locked on mine and immediately he came over and sat next to me on a vacant stool asking me what my name was (Gush!)

Beside my newly befriended hunk-of-a-friend, I was completely beside myself. I could scarcely believe he was talking to me! He kept reaching down to adjust his socks and every time he would press his leg closer to mine (Gush!) We shared more about each other, where we came from, he himself being from San Diego. He was surprised I was 31. I was surprised he was 22. (Cougar! I know.) He did preface our conversation with saying his girlfriend just left (Really? Was that some sort of invitation? I can never tell.) He kept asking me why I wasn't out on the floor dancing, I tried to play coy and mumbled something about wanting to wait until a song I really liked to come on before hitting the floor. So we kept talking, he told me he worked at a retail store downtown and that he's used to being around a lot of gay people because of it, all the while he kept getting closer, our arms touching, our shoulders touching. I couldn't have asked for a warmer welcome to SF (Gush!)

He finally went out onto the dance floor and a flock of girls surrounded him. My friend kept encouraging me to get out there and after a few songs, I went. He was happy to see me, but I made sure I maintained a distance from him, (I didn't want him to think I was making assumptions, but sometimes it's hard not too, especially when cheap beer is involved.) Before leaving, being obliged to meet up with some other friends, he made a point to say goodbye to me and I ended the night gushing and glowing.

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A few days later, while downtown looking for a sweater to ward off the ever-present San Francisco chill, I decided to do a little "drive-by" where my hunk-of-a-friend works and as I walked by, sure enough, there he was in all his glory. It took him a moment to register how he knew me, then he smiled and opened his arms to give me a hug (Gush!) He introduced me to a co-worker of his, a slight, coiffed and well manicured Asian boy, who graciously complimented me on my leather jacket (BR.)

"So did you have fun the other night?" My hunk-of-a-friend asked me, three times. (Isn't it true, when nervous, people tend to repeat themselves? Just sayin'...) He asked if I were going out again this weekend. I told him I'd like to, but wasn't sure, just playing it all by ear. I asked him if he ever goes out during the week. He suggested I take his number and maybe we could go out together sometime (Honestly, it was his idea, not mine!) So I entered his number into my phone and shot him a text and took my leave, after another tight hug, of course (Gush!)

Quite the souvenir to come home with, if you ask me (Gush!)

A highlight* *from SFO

One evening in March, at a schmoozy networking event for men who enjoy the company of men (homosexuals,) on the terrace of a somewhat pretentious (for the Emerald City) hotel, I met a bright, charming young (my age) man, who was up visiting his brother (a fellow socialite.) Having gone to a few of these events in the past one tends to recognize (at least I do) faces (and outfits, and accessories.) I find it amusing whenever a new face appears (fresh meat) and witnessing the crowd's reaction to someone new. (Curious? I'll take you out for a little social experimentation sometime. Contact me.)

As the event wound down, me, my socialite friend and his brother went to eat and drink. My friend's husband (yes, apparently in this day and age men can marry men-yipee!) is the general manager of a restaurant in one of the Emerald City's livelier and more colorful hotels. The three of us decided to hop over (more like climb or hike--the Emerald City and all it's hills) and pay him a visit. 'Twas such awhile ago I can not recall what it is we tasted and enjoyed. I do remember, my friend's brother, is a smoker and I would accompany him on his breaks for fresh air. Outside I eagerly shared with him what I knew of Emerald City's skyline and it's history.

No tour of the Emerald City is complete without a stop at Vessel, my home away from home, (a home I regard with much pride and joy.) The delight upon my new found friend's face was quite evident. I did not realize until then he had the palate and passion for cocktails (and good food) as I do. Needless to say, we imbibed.

The next morning the comment he left on my Facebook page read: "those last words haven't finished talking. so glad we made it to vessel though."

It is now August and I am visiting in his city of residence, San Francisco. He is a DJ and was at a party last night in SOMA. He is no longer single, and I, being the florist that I am, drew out the story of how that came to be.

Shortly after his trip to the Emerald City, he was out doing his DJ thing and saw someone he was compelled to meet. He asked for his name and introductions were made, and they spent the rest of the night chatting, dancing and smiling. At the end of the night contact info was exchanged and a few days later contact was made and a date was set.

Forgive me for not being able to recall the venue or the details of their date as I was two cocktails and two whiskey-gingers deep, but I do remember the subject of singledom was brought up and both boys found them to also share that in common, as well as other hobbies and passions. That seemed to cement their connection even more.

Recently, the two went for a long bike ride and during an abeyant rest for them to catch their breath, my friend's breath was taken away as his beau dropped down on one knee and stated his intention to have him in his life ever more and today they are going ring shopping.

I had the pleasure of meeting the fiancé last night, along with a host of other friends, fellow DJ's and acquaintances of the blissful two. When my friend's beloved arrived, instantly a Japanese quote I am fond of came to mind: "When two hearts are as one, eyes are more eloquent than lips." So intense, yet gentle and full ardor was his gaze for my friend, who returned the look with the brightest smile and a gaze just as earnest and ardent.

I am certain these two will never be at a lost for words, ever, their glances will always speak volumes.

Fruit never falls far from the tree, especially Siamese fruit.

Recently I took a day trip up to Vancouver, British Columbia, with my mother's eldest sister, to visit one of her best friends that she has known for over 30 years. The two met while attending the University of Washington, my aunt needed an extra quarter for bus fare and asked a fellow student in the copy center if she could help her out, which she did. The next day after paying her back, my aunt inquired where her classmate was from, noting that the generous girl had a distinct name that resonated with my aunt.

"I'm from Thailand," her new friend answered.

"What?! Me too!" My aunt exclaimed.

They have been best of friends ever since. My aunt's friend ended up emigrating to Canada after graduating from the UW and marrying a Japanese man, together they run a very successful sushi restaurant and catering company. Most recently they were commissioned to provide sushi and assorted Japanese culinary delights for the Canadian glitterati and athletes during the 2010 Winter Olympics. Often, they also do catering for locally touring musicians and entertainers.

My aunt and I took the train up to Vancouver, her first time ever on the US railways. Upon checking in we discovered there was a snafu with our booking and we were scheduled to board the train to Vancouver, Washington and not BC. My anxiety subsided with the arrival of my aunt, late, causing us to miss the Southbound train, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise; we still had time to catch the correct Northbound train. When dealing with the ticketing agent, my aunt, being in a near-panicked state, flustered and having a tendency towards hot-headed-ness (much like my grandmother, her mother,) was not the most pleasant person to deal with. Things got to a point where the profusely sweating ticketing agent had to excuse himself and leave the counter before continuing to assist us. When he returned, I maintained an air of calm and did my best to assuage both parties and was relieved when my aunt was refunded for the mis-booked Vancouver, Washington tickets and the rest of our itinerary became sorted out.

We had about an hour and a half until the Northbound train departed and decided to get something to eat in nearby Chinatown. I was wary of us straying too far and not making it back in time to make our train, so I opted for the closest place with the most options, the food court in Uwajimaya Village, it sufficed and we made it back to the train station with leftovers for the ride up and a quarter of an hour to spare.

During the four hour ride, my aunt and I were able to do quite a lot of catching up. It had been years since we've last spent such a significant time together. She told me stories of her childhood and hardships endured in the Third World, her impetus for becoming educated and successful here in the United States. She confided in me in her reasons in selecting her husband and why she endured so long in a marriage overlaid with seemingly endless obstacles and intricate challenges. It's quite something to relate with one's elder relatives on a peer level, it adds a whole new dimension to the dynamic of the relationship. Apparently I'm an adult now.

From my aunt's stories I gleaned a clearer reflection of myself. My aunt also shared with me moments of her childhood, which help me see how her heart has been shaped to resemble the form it now possesses. She told me tales of her hopeful youth, of yearning to be successful with her exacting marriage while simultaneously running a strenuous business. She spoke of heart-breaking experiences and wounded pride; a pride I too posses. Coming from the Land of Smiles, we Thai may be quick to reconcile and forgive, but we have memories as long as elephants, (perhaps that is why the elephant served as the crest of our ancient Ayutthaya Kingdom,) we seldom forget when we've been wronged.

It has been said by many we are a people of beautiful stock, have a penchant for aesthetics, are also known as loving and gracious to a fault, and renowned throughout the world for our hospitality--I suspect that is exactly why it is unfathomable to our prideful egos whenever we are shown discourtesy or disrespect; seeking not revenge, we yearn for justice and accountability.

The hours I spent with my aunt I saw in her my grandmother, my mother and myself. Strong-willed spirits who endure and endure and endure. We love easily and fiercely, and are adored by many. We rejoice in the blessings of life, both simple and grand, when abundant, and cunningly persevere when our path becomes littered with hardships. And when wounded, we are not quick to forget.

Is it Hot in Here, or is it Just Me?

"Take your pleasure seriously." -Charles Eames

A good credo to live by and one they take to heart at my absolute favorite bar in the city, Vessel. As my birthday season came to a close, last Saturday, I celebrated with a grand finale, A Midsummer's Night Heat, at Vessel, one of the sleekest bars in the city. Recently, Vessel was ranked as one of the "100 Top Bars in the World," in Food & Wine, and in 2008 featured as one of the "Best Bars in America," in Esquire. Some find the stark, white walls, transparent Kartell Ghost chairs, leaden gray floors and chartreuse-green glass staircase a bit too cool, uninviting and pretentious; I, myself, simply think of Vessel as an extension of my living room (and the dark and sexy Rob Roy, my basement.) 

At first glance, the bartenders at Vessel are all handsome (surprise, surprise,) suave (in a nonchalant way) and collected, (need I add cool to the list?) As I've gotten to know the dashing boys over the years I have also found them in addition to being straightforward, actually very genuine, personable and warm-hearted. The charming, svelte, female cocktail servers are all also very easy-on-the-eyes, ever composed and just as attentive, clicking throughout the night in their high heels and little, form-fitting black dresses.

I arrived a tad bit early and the bar was empty, save for the staff who were passing time playing with their smartphones. After my supple, custom cocktail was crafted, (thanks KL,) I decided to prop myself on one of the stools in the window facing Fifth Avenue and almost immediately the paparazzi began snapping away. Perhaps it was the outfit? A brand new pair of dark slim fitting denim jeans (Club Monaco,) cream-colored sleeveless tee featuring an abstract floral outline in fuchsia (Benetton,) brown wool vest (vintage) and newly polished black, knee-high leather boots (Nordstrom Rack;) for accessories I wore a black leather belt (Gap,) a black, leather, tassel belt that I wore as a layered necklace (also Gap,) a wool driving cap (TJ Max,) and a trio of pheasant and ostrich feathers.

While waiting for my guests to arrive, I sat, still and poised, as groups of tourists snapped away to their hearts' content, marveling whenever I would shift positions or sip on my sumptuous cocktail. My first pair of guests finally did show as 9 o'clock rolled around, a dear pair of friends engaged to be married next February. They joined me in the narrow window and we reminisced of a drunken night in years past in the very same seats. Shortly after, a newly acquainted friend and her darling husband, whom I had admired from afar at a previous at Vessel, arrived and we migrated to the bar proper.

Everyone that showed that evening, nearly twenty of us in total, put forth effort in their party attire, which I very much appreciated. Fitted and flattering cuts of cloth, flashes of skin and decadent accessories. I must say, we made quite the collection of chic urbanites: A doctor was in the house, as well as an architect, an engineer, a graphic designer, a fashionista, a venture capitalist, an accountant, a mathematician, several educators, a fencing instructor, a chef, a social health policy professional, and a trio of aspiring models.

Life is too short not celebrate every occasion that comes our way, and there are many, though a number go unnoticed, but one of the main reasons why I enjoy hosting parties so much is to have a hand in creating an opportunity to for like-hearted people to meet one another. As always, at my parties, well-suitable connections were made amongst my guests, which invariably fills me with a deep-rooted sense of pride. I always get a thrill of pairing people up, whether it be romantically, professionally, or otherwise. I like to think of it as playing the part of a socialite wife, or even, an urban geisha: "Dear, have you met so-and-so, they are in such-and-such field, quite similar to your line of profession." "Darling, I'd like to introduce you to so-and-so, they belong to such-and-such organization and are looking for x,y and z."

A smartly furnished room filled with lovely, well-intentioned, good-looking people all imbibing on top notch cocktails makes for the perfect combination for a memorable and enjoyable evening. I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate the end of my birthday.

Drink? How could I not? After all, it was "For the Music."

It seems everyone in the Emerald City are of the same mind when summer officially begins; all we want to do is go out and play (i.e. imbibe.) With the arrival of the warmer weather, my email inbox has been inundated with seemingly endless invitations. At times forcing me to double-book myself on some nights. It was such a night on a not-so-random Thursday two weeks ago.

I received an email from the vitaminwater social club asking me to join them for their "secret show volume one... with the duchess and the duke." Having enjoyed myself at their successful launch party and harboring exclusivity as a sweet spot of mine, I RSVP'd, plus one and was confirmed by the event producer himself.

I also was invited to "Drink for the Music," by a friend of mine. The event was a "Kickstarter" fundraiser for a local band, The Thoughts: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/thethoughts/musicartmovement. The free show was to be held at Liberty, (Libs,) a casual, neighborhood cocktail bar on Capitol Hill proper: http://www.libertybars.com, with a portion of the night's sushi (yes, a bar that serves sushi, exclusively) and bar proceeds slated towards supporting The Thoughts upcoming multi-media record, "I Won't Keep You Here."

For once, I chose not to fret about my outfit and went wearing the clothes I wore to work. A simple, fitted, short sleeve, button-down shirt (Levi's,) that I've owned for over 10 years and one of my more pedestrian pairs of jeans I tend to fall back on during the work week.

I figured since The Duchess and The Duke were headlining, they wouldn't go on stage until about 10:00pm or so and with The Thoughts first set starting at 8:00pm, my friend and I strategized to start our evening at Liberty and work our way from there. Another bonus to beginning the evening at Libs is that the attractive 'tenders there (and there are quite a number of them,) who all make pretty tasty beverages, much more satisfying than the vodka + vitaminwater concoctions offered at the Hipster-esque social club.

I beat my friend to the bar by about 20 minutes, but I didn't mind in the least bit, it gave me a chance to catch up with a friend of mine who not only works behind the bar, but happens to be one of the owners as well, and I was also able to become a bit familiar with some of the other gents tending the bar. For my first drink I ordered a Devi Rose, a crisp, gin-based, slightly herbal, alpine-esque cocktail. I felt a bit high maintenance (or "HM," as I found out on a subsequent visit) as the bartender kept having to search for a variety of ingredients not commonly used (pine liqueur, orange flower water,) and one ingredient in particular which was on the top shelf (Ramazotti, an Italian amaro,) which a taller (also handsome,) gent had to reach for him.

By the time I ordered my second drink, The Continental, (I'm a sucker for anything with St. Germain,) my friend was able to secure a parking space and finally meet up with me. Having fought traffic and arriving a bit flustered she ordered herself a pint (of Guinness.) We then, made our way through a slight hallway to the newly expanded back room where the band was playing. We nestled ourselves (sunk in, is more like it,) on a over-sized, leather couch, betwixt two patrons. My friend waved 'hello,' to several people she knew scattered about on various couches, chairs and ottomans that filled the perimeter of the dimly lit room.

It was quite the intimate setting; the lead vocalist and guitarist, Ian, reminded me of a more polished Rufus Wainwright (who's voice I'm not particularly fond of;) Ian's honest and melodic voice was accompanied by a darling violinist, Katie and dexterous drummer, Jon. The trio have a spellbinding ability to tug at your heartstrings and tell a rich story through their music and all-too-heartfelt lyrics. Within the room's rich, deep red walls, with it's corners softly lit by four, free-standing, floor-length, paper lanterns, listening and feeling these three young, bright talents give so much of their soul, I couldn't help but allow the tears to well up in my eyes.

Back to the bar, before anyone noticed my moist eyes, I ordered another cocktail for myself and a French 75 for my friend. My heart and insides were just gushing with emotion. Live music, live art, live feelings. Every time I'm around creative people who live their passion (even if it's only part-time,) I find myself relishing in the deliciousness of that particular, unique moment and experience. Awe, admiration, and inspiration abound. Even the bartenders themselves, are artist, artist who paint with spirits, bitters, juices and other assorted liquids, glasses replacing canvases, and taste-buds serving as eyes or ears.

I made back to the show in time for a few more songs and then the house lights went up (Quick! Where's the tissue?). My friend introduced me to everyone present that she knew, one of whom was acquainted with the violinist, Katie. Many of my friend's connections that night, stemmed from her involvement with CityClub, an organization that aims to cultivate a more educated and informed populace by engaging them in community and civic involvement. One of her friends who serves as an integral figure at CityClub felt like kin to me. We talked of the Emerald City's legacy families and back-door dealings at former Fortune 500 companies, current politics, how she met her beau (of course, I had to ask,) how she knew the band, how long she had been residing in the Emerald City, how she knew of Liberty; the two of us could probably talk all night but, being quite the social butterfly, she was constantly being ushered in multiple directions and our conversations kept needing to be put on hold.

My friend and I ordered a few sushi rolls and another round of drinks; the sushi was good, for being a bar, honestly I was a bit surprised, pleasantly so. The fish was fresh, the only thing I was in want of is more ginger, but the staff at Libs was so busy I didn't want to bother with such a trifling request (I wouldn't want them to think of me as HM, now would I?) After our little, happy meal, I purchased a raffle ticket which also entitled me to a copy of the band's last CD, "Consider the Bear," and I was able to get all three of the band members to autograph it for me (Yay!.)

We left Libs before the second set started and made our way down to the vitaminwater social club. Luckily, we were able to find "Princess Parking" (read: HM) and stumbled into the social club, after being verified as on the list (am I really HM?,) and I began to give my friend the tour of Capitol Hill's newest, fleeting, Hipster hangout. My friend works in public relations and I am pretty sure she could appreciate the thorough, yet appropriate job Antarctic Creative did with the space and the branding of vitaminwater. I introduced my friend to the person I knew involved with Antarctic and let them talk shop a bit. We seemed to have perfect timing, as shortly after our tour and chat, The Duchess and The Duke took the stage and, quite honestly, the rest of the night was a blur. A warm, fuzzy, feel-good blur.

Le douceur de vivre - The Sweetness of Life

Last Saturday evening, I attended a Bon Voyage party for a friend of mine who is leaving Seattle to pursue his graduate degree at London Business School. This won't be his first time on the other side of The Pond; he's a Frenchman. My bon ami and I met while volunteering for the GSBA (Greater Seattle Business Association,) and would quite often run into one another at various parties around town. I most recently saw him and his beau at the birthday party I had at Bottlehouse a few weeks back. Of course, I had to see him one last time before his journey abroad.

The soirée was to be held in the private bar at Blackbottle, a sleek wine bar and gastro-tavern in Belltown; as the hour drew nigh, I fretted about my ensemble; do I wear something sexy and sophisticated like the venue; do I wear something casual and summery reflective of the day's weather and the lighthearted occasion; color or all black; slim or flared; heels or flats? So I reached out through Facebook and the majority of those who responded leaned toward color (one of the respondents is a couturier at a local dress boutique.) I decided on a very colorful Missoni striped and floral print, button-up dress shirt (The Finerie,) toned it down with a vintage, charcoal gray vest, which I decorated with a hummingbird broach that belonged to my great-grandmother and completed the look with dark, fitted, slightly flared Joe's Jeans under which I wore a pair of vintage cowboy boots as a nod to my American roots. I was quite pleased with the outcome: Sleek, fun and chic.

Upon arriving I made my way to the bar and chose to begin the evening with a glass of Crémant. Looking like quite the flâneur, I carried my flute of bubbles and sidled over to where the man of honor was seated and settled in, right beside him. We embraced and he introduced me to a circle of fellow bon vivants. I must say, it was quite the mélange: in addition to French émigrés, there were Québécois, a Lebanese, an Eqyptian, a Tunisian, and even a Japonais. I was one of the few, if not the only, native born Emerald City citizen, which seemed to intrigue everyone present.

Across the softly lit room, a particular gentleman kept glancing my way and eventually got up enough nerve to approach me. He pulled up a chair, turned it around and straddled it before he introduced himself en français, to which I replied, "Je m'appelle Tino; enchanté." My smiling friend, seated next to me, then chimed in and boasted in his accented English, "Tino knows how to speak French," giving me far too much credit in regards to my proficiency in the Romance languages.

"How is it that you can speak French?" I was asked by the somewhat surprised gentleman. I explained to him a number of my friends speak French regularly and I've been able to pick up bits and pieces along the way, not just in French but numerous other languages, Romance and otherwise. We then explored the various languages we were familiar with and between the two of us covered quite a bit of the Northern Hemisphere. The gentlemen knew my friend through a French chorus that used to meet prior to its conductor leaving the Emerald City in pursuit of professional advancements. While we were chatting I could hear Lady Gaga's Just Dance playing in the background, followed by T.I & Rihanna's Live Your Life, whereupon he excused himself to go hit the dance floor, but not before he leaned in, with Limoncello soaked lips, and kissed me, on my neck. "It was just meant to be kissed," he explained with an apologetic smile.

I made my way back to the bar, ordered a glass of crisp Viognier and returned to my seat. Sipping on my white wine, I let my ears and eyes wander. While sifting through all the tongues being spoken I shifted my gaze around the room. The soigné room consisted of clean, cream-colored walls with minimal slate gray fixtures and a dark gray floor. Unadorned, elongated tungsten light bulbs dropped down from the ceiling on slender wires, casting the space in a warm wash. Across from me on a narrow ledge was an over-sized glass jar that held three massive King Sago Palm fronds, beside it lay a long, slender piece of bleached driftwood. Scattered around the room were a few more vases, all of which each held no more than four pieces of assorted tropical foliage, which suited the simplicity of the place quite well.

While observing my surroundings, I couldn't help but feel I was being observed as well. It appeared that I had caught the eye of a Québécoi. He came over to me, sat at my table and complimented me on the shirt I was wearing (I guess I did wear the right outfit, after all,) asking me where I had found it, then he introduced himself to me, in English, and we continued our conversation; where we were from, how long we've been in Seattle, where we've been, what we've seen and such. All the while, I couldn't help but think to myself: My goodness, these boys sure know how to make someone feel like the center of attention. We both smiled at one another exquisitely with our eyes as we sought to find more topics of conversation, at a loss for words, he excused himself and bashfully disappeared into the crowd.

Was it me? Or was it hot in there? All to soon, I found my wine glass empty and returned to the bar, this time trying the Cava Rosé. Warm and flushed I opted for a seat near the over-sized windows that had been pivoted open, and began chatting with a woman I was introduced to earlier in the evening. It turned out that we both had a penchant for history and we began to divulged to one another the particular periods of humankind we were passionate for. Furthering our rapport, we also discovered we both shared extensive experience volunteering in a variety of fields, and, (surprise, surprise,) she was also multi-lingual. She eventually was pulled away by her adoring husband and I found myself with yet another empty glass and resolved to remedy the situation.

For glass number four, I completed my Mediterranean tour with a serving of Prosecco. By this time, the dance party was in full swing, with songs alternating between English and French and spanning across four decades. And then, the clarion sound of a familiar anthem filled the room, "...No fighting, no fighting... Shakira, Shakira." It was Hips Don't Lie and in the tight jeans I was wearing, I made sure my hips spoke the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. "All the attraction, the attention/ Don't you see baby, this is perfection." You can imagine what ensued.

Not only was it a going-away party, it turns out it was also someone's birthday, the Lebanese fellow (yummm...,) also a polyglot (surprise, surprise,) and somehow a dark chocolate cake with lit candles arose, seemingly, out of nowhere and we all enthusiastically sang "Happy Birthday." I marveled at the joie de vivre clearly exhibited on everyone's face. I felt surreal, as if I were in a scene out of a movie or in a magazine spread, but we weren't transfixed and frozen in a moment in time, or even contrived; we, collectively, together, were organic, real and fluid within a moment in time.

At the close of the night, after one more glass of Crémant, I crawled through the open window to join what was left of our party on the sidewalk, most of whom were casually smoking by then. As the Belltown bars began letting out, my French-speaking friends burst out in song in a show of marvelous camaraderie. They caught the attention of more than just inebriated passer-byers, a man appearing of little means, made his way to us and began to sing an improvised doo-wop style tune, while beating an upside-down plastic water jug. We explained, that it was one of our friend's birthday and the busker modified his lyrics to fit the occasion. We all joined him in his rhyming, rhythmic cadence, clapping and stomping, serenading our friend with yet more birthday praises. Again, surreal, I felt like I was in an incredible movie scene.

The last thing I remember of that sweet, balmy night, is embracing my friend, one last time, to say goodbye and hearing: "Je t'aime bien, I love you, Tino." Quite the perfect, Hollywood ending to a such a sublime night.

"J'adore mon ami, j'adore."

Vive la France!

Ah, La Fête Nationale. The Emerald City is home to quite a prodigious population of Francophiles. It is little wonder at just how many Bastille Day fêtes blanketed the town. I began my evening at Vessel where I was expecting a bustling crowd of dapperly dressed patrons, conversing in français, but to my dismay my maison away from maison, wasn't all that crowded. I slowly sipped my Cocktail a la Louisiane and nibbled on Pomme de Terre aux Olives and Radis avec Beurre et le Sel del Fleur, while conversing with the few patrons who were at the bar, one a friend of mine, the other a familiar face from previous parties, most recently the Derby Day event, who was kind enough to complement me on my attire, both present and past. The aire, unfortunately, was not as festive as I was anticipating and whence I finished my drink and cleaned my plate I bid mon amis, adieu and set course for Post Alley and Café Campagne, where I have spent a number of Bastille Days before.

I could hear much merry-making half a block away and as I drew closer I espied a throng of fellow Francophiles abound in the alley. I crossed past the velvet ropes and maneuvered my way to the bar for a glass of crisp rosé, then, deftly sauntered through the jubilant crowd, over to where the action was taking place, not far from where I had lunched less than a week prior. I was just in time for the beginning of a burlesque performance, the kittenish vixen of a dancer, who served as a dance mentor to one of my girlfriends last fall, did an entertaining Édith Piaf-inspired number, complete with red roses and all, all strategically placed, of course.

Being in such close proximity of where I had celebrated my birthday, I reached out to my fellow friends to see whereabouts they were and yes, indeed, one was present, the other, was presently on their way. When I did manage to rendezvous with the first of the two I was much delighted to find her holding a bottle of rosé. It is true, birds of a feather, do indeed flock together. Close together in the narrow alley, a whirlwind of introductions were made in our oblong social circle with the question of the night posed to me numerous times: "So do you do yoga, is that how you know so-and-so?" Thankfully, I have done yoga in the past and know a thing or deux about the practice, but non, that was not how I became acquainted with my newly-found Francophile, foodie friends.

We talked health and yoga, local geography and the Emerald City, educational institutions, politics, sexuality, relationships and of course, food and wine. As the evening drew on, several of us needed more sustenance and I was given the task of selecting the next venue and steering all of us in the appropriate direction. It seemed everyone was rather content with me choosing Palomino for their recently revamped late night happy hour. Since I chose the venue, I was nominated to do the ordering: two more bottles of rosé we shared, (on top of the four we had consumed earlier,) along with Tuscan white bean dip, truffle deviled eggs, several flat bread pizzas, and my favorite for the night, Gorgonzola fries (which are not listed on the menu, but available upon request.) Half-way through our meal we played musical chairs with an even number of us rotating seats to converse and carry-on with those we hadn't spoken with before. No fireworks were required to complete our Bastille Day celebration, as our food, wine and wit provided all the sparkle and dazzle we could ever be in need of that night.