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.

A bundle of birthday parties.

After my leisurely brunch last Sunday at Tilikum Place, I meandered over to Citizen to support a newly-made friend, who just recently joined the team at the cute, little, coffee and crêpe house. Later that afternoon, after catching up with friends, old and new, and consulted about the landscaping of their new patio, I made my way over to the Rob Roy where my first official birthday party, of several, took place.

I had three waves of guests arrive culminating into a count of over two dozen imbibers before the night's end, which came a bit early for me since I did have to work the next day. A few highlights from the party: seeing an old childhood friend, who also came to my Halloween party, 'Dark and Stormy,' last fall, aside from that, I hadn't seen her in nearly 10 years. She is now married and living on the Eastside and works as a librarian and has quite the quintessential suburban lifestyle, choosing to substitute pets for children. Another childhood friend I've known since 6th grade happened to be finished with Graduate school and in town and it's been years since we've seen each other as well. I find it so fascinating reuniting with people I knew half a lifetime ago and seeing how much the same we are, personality-wise, as adults as we were as adolescents, except now we can legally drink.

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That following Tuesday was the premier birthday fête, Ma vie en rose, at Bottlehouse. Upon climbing the stairs to their welcoming front porch, a row of sunflowers each in their own antique soda bottle welcomed me and propped in front of them was a slate-board sandwich sign that read: "Closed for a Private Event--Ma vie en rose." Yes, I was feeling quite special. Then I entered the place and on their floor to ceiling slate-board menu: "Happy Birthday Tino! Welcome to Ma vie en rose!" I was feeling very special indeed.

The evening began with hugs all around, given by some of the most good-looking and urbane denizens who grace the Emerald City and I have the privilege to call Friend. The late afternoon sun cast everything, inside and out, in a warm, golden glow and blessed us with a balmy evening that stayed both heady and supple long into the night.

And of course, there was wine; rosés and whites, both with bubbles, or not. Seemingly limitless amounts of liquid elegance in clear, crystal stemware, glassware of such quality that the finger subconsciously lingers around and caresses it when not pressed up to one's lips in indulgent prayer. Every few minutes, the chiming of glasses could be heard, almost like Swiss clockwork, as ever more friends arrived, all splendid, gorgeous, and all too eager to join us in our infectious hedonism.

The cheese, oh, the cheese! Ripe, pungent and oh, so tasty! (Thank you JP!) I found little need for the freshly baked bread, the olives or the almonds. The cheese was plenty enough to whet my palate. (Though I did sneak off to the garden more than once to pilfer a few nearly fermented raspberries to garnish my countless flutes of Crémant d'Alsace and Moscato D'Asti. Mmmm!)

And as requested, nearly all 40 of my darling guests wore pink in honor of the theme: Ma vie en rose. My one and thirty years of life, in pink. My friends, all know so well how to make me feel so special, so very special indeed.

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As the sun passes through the house of Cancer, every summer, it seems as if there is a profusion of birthdays that abound in such a relatively short season. Last Saturday, two former neighbors, but still close friends of mine, each had a birthday party on the same day. Curious that we all used to live in the same dwelling, but have since scattered to the winds, yet we still commune together and celebrate when occasions call.

Arriving embarrassingly late to a fragrant, homemade Italian dinner on First Hill, I could see my presence wasn't all that missed as the coquettish glances of the single ladies in attendance feasted upon a tall, dark, handsome and somewhat mysterious visitor, who was a college friend of our host. I immediately took to the vino and attempted to do my best to catch up with the ladies. Too soon, we ran out of Dionysus' blessings and I ran to the store to replenish our stock with two more bottles for the eight of us to partake in and to perhaps also pay homage to Eros, praying, this evening, no arrows went astray.

While at the store, I ran into the other birthday Cancerian, who was on an ice run. "Two kegs!" Need he say more? Whence, back at the dinner party, with yet another party on the horizon at Feierabend, a German pub in South Lake Union in less than an hour we efficiently coordinated the logistics of the evening. Half of us went to the Kegger, the other half to the bar in case guests did decide to show up on time at the other party. I was thankful, the attractive visitor came with us to the Kegger, affording my eyes the opportunity to take up their fill, having missed the earlier opportunity due to my tardiness to dinner. After a few obligatory red cups, (I brought a travel mug) the four of us snagged a cab and caught up with the rest of our crew at Feierabend (travel mug still in hand.) After a couple more "biers," another bottle of white wine (Riesling, for me, of course) and a round of Fernet, we were all primed to go dancing and ended up at the Lo_Fi, where the birthday girl and I engaged in Strippercising on the dance floor. No, I didn't wake up with any dollar bills in my unmentionables... I don't think? Too much Fernet, maybe? No, never.

Brunch (yet again.)

Sunday morning, a dear friend of mine offered to take me out to brunch (notice a trend?) We didn't feel like venturing too far and thus decided to stay in the midst of Midtown. I recalled a few friends discovering a quaint little place, the Tilikum Place Café, and had been wanting to try it out for myself so thought that this might be the perfect opportunity to do so, and, it was.

After a short, few-minute walk, following the shadow of the monorail along upper fifth, until we reached Denny Way, we came upon a little, tucked away, cobblestone square featuring a small fountain of four bear heads on each side of a square pedestal, whereupon a life-size statue of Chief Seattle greeted us with an outstretched copper arm. Alongside the tree covered plaza was a Thai restaurant, a dive bar (noted for it's Men's restroom, where you can see the Space Needle through a periscope-like device, while standing and relieving oneself,) a taco shop, the café, a hair salon (where my mother used to date the owner back in the early 80's,) and a pizzeria.

Upon entering the café I noticed an older couple by the door having their mimosas replenished (hmm, looks like my kind of place, I thought to myself.) We were greeted by a brigade of bright smiles as the door softly shut behind us and, with much alacrity, were swiftly seated to a cozy, corner table. We sat in the elbow of a long, caramel-colored, sumptuous leather booth, where we had an advantageous view of the adorable dining room and it's various patrons.

A table of twenty-something New Yorkers sat on one side of us, a pair of Canadian Victorians on the other, beyond them, a mother and her young son, who held his cup of hot chocolate as if it were a cappuccino; also present were several pairs of couples, some looking as if they had just met the night before, other's as if they'd known each other for half their life, such as the couple by the door, each reading a section of the newspaper and switching from mimosas to just plain bubbly.

The dining room was bright, with whitewashed walls, punctuated with a bit of exposed brick behind the bar, and a minimal amount of woodwork, such as the mid-weight timbers that supported the high ceilings and framed the higher, small-paned windows. The honey-colored wood floor was composed of rather short boards and lain at an angle to form a lovely herringbone pattern. 

The room itself was simple in decoration, with a few strong, key elements; a few pairs of candle-like sconces, a large ornate mirror, some larger vintage-feeling pieces of art and along the walls directly above the L-shaped soft leather booth was a border of a collection of various postcards, lending a whimsical touch to the clean space. Memories of a friend's birthday brunch, a few years back, at Balthazar in SoHo surfaced in my mind.

The menu, European-inspired, much of it French in origin, had me salivating before I was even halfway through perusing it. After a cup of our table-side, French press coffee and a small glass of in-house, fresh squeezed, orange juice I was able to focus and make a decision: the house-cured smoked salmon Benedict. (Mmmm!) My friend choose a baked egg dish with ratatouille that arrived in its own petite, cast iron skillet. We savored each and every bite; brunching for hours, observing the coming-and-goings of fellow patrons and continuing to marvel at our newly discovered neighborhood gem. 

We concluded the morning a candle-topped, jasmine tapioca pudding, (Mmmm, again!) which was presented to me with yet, another round of "Happy Birthday" by our beaming waitress. Indeed, it was a very happy birthday brunch--very happy (Thank you GM!)

Brunch, Bubbles and more Bubbles

I awoke bright and refreshed Saturday morning. The sun seemed to be in as a cheerful mood as I was. I was meeting a friend, a handsome one at that, for brunch. This day, unlike the previous one, I did put a bit more effort in my appearance. A crisp, black shirt with bell-cuffs (Hugo Boss,) a dark pair of fitted jeans (Joe's Jeans) and a pair of black boots (with only a 2 1/2" heel.) I seem to have misplaced my Tiffany and Company bracelet so I settled for a tennis bracelet instead (Hey, my cuff covered it for the most part, so it didn't appear too ostentatious, besides we were meeting at Portage Bay Cafe and the last time I went there I rued that I did not wear heels nor look as pretty as I could have.)

At promptly 9:00 I arrived and was seated at a small table by the window in a large, cafeteria-like room (a feature quite prevalent in many of the newer establishments in the ever-up-and-coming South Lake Union neighborhood. I sipped on a large murky glass of organic apple juice while I awaited my friend and became lost in my thoughts; I recalled a Facebook status update a friend had posted months prior, something along the lines of: "Now I know where all the DILFs (Dad I'd Like to F*!#) brunch." Then it clicked, of course, men of a certain age, educated, urban professionals, who own new condos in fledgling high-rises, drive Audis opposed to Subarus, and go out Thursday through Saturday nights to, uh, let's say, make a gamble to discover a chance-encounter-of-a-close-kind; these men most likely aren't up to the task of making breakfast, but nonetheless hungry in the morning from their previous night's endeavors, attempted and/or successful, which would possibly explain why there were indeed so many of them present. I must say, I hold little doubt in the culinary prowess of these men, or at least their ability to go to Whole Foods, order a meal, bring it to their sleek (read: sparse) bachelor pad and make it appear as if they cooked it up themselves; essentially, I just think on the weekends, why would they bother?

Fortunately for me, my friend, handsome as he is, does not fit in such a box. I saw him through the window, opening the door and then holding it as thankful servers and clueless patrons benefited from his kindness. Always so patient, so chivalrous, so charming--ever the thrilling combination. As he approached the table, I rose to greet him with a tight embrace, thankful for the extra height my heels afforded me (my friend is well over six feet tall.)

Unsurprisingly, he ordered his usual fare with his usual substitutions and I, myself, forewent the roast beef hash featured on the special menu, in favor of the traditional corned beef. It had been some time since we last spent time in one another's company and we had quite a bit to catch up on. We took our time to confess and confer, to divulge and discuss and lingered long after we had finished the breaking of our fast. Hopefully, not as much time will past ere we see one another once again.

Later that day I met up with some close friends, had a round (I enjoyed a Last Word, carbonated via the Perlini system) at Vessel (my third day in a row there,) where I ran into another self-proclaimed "Cocktail Geek," (surprise, surprise) and eventually my friends and I moseyed on our way to Madrona and made a visit to my dear friends at Bottlehouse.

My words are not able to adequately describe Bottlehouse. Visually, Bottlehouse is soft, subtly sophisticated, very clean and yet very warm. The emotional atmosphere here is even more noticeable than the aesthetic, though just as easy to appreciate. Hopefully you'll have an opportunity to experience it for yourself in the very near future (wink, wink.) (Ma vie en rose, quoi?!)

On the outdoor deck, I ran into three pairs of friends, all of them greeting me with hugs, save for one who sat with his lap wide open, upon which I descended into as I wrapped my arms around him as I bid him 'Hello.' His wife, sitting across from us, didn't even bother to roll her eyes at me, so used to me and my humorous, amorous antics when around her husband. I did introductions and gave brief bios on everyone present and had glass, after glass, after glass of bubbles. From France to Italy and back, my palate traveled, exploring and delighting in flute after effervescent flute. My spirit soared being surrounded by the estimable, intimate company of my dear, good friends.

Long after the sun descended, its summer warmth still remained. Strands of cafe lights softly illuminated our outdoor room as wafts of honeysuckle seduced our olfactory glands. Twice we ravaged the garden for fresh raspberries to embellish our simple, yet fair, table-fare; we nibbled on curds and olives, bread and oil, all the while I kept causing the boys to blush with my unabashed tongue (no it wasn't the bubbles talking--straight boys tend to bring out the Siamese in me.)

For the second night in a row, I was serenaded and presented with a tray of goodies, one of which bore a candle. Instinctively, I blew out the flame as the song, ended not thinking to wish for anything. In hindsight, surrounded by true friends, at the same table sharing food and wine and each other's warmth, there is little else I could have wished for, no wonder I didn't bother to make one.

The Day and The Night

This past Friday was the actual anniversary of the day of my birth. I felt like looking cute and wanted to keep things a bit on the casual side. I again, wore my ultra skinny jeans and a very fitted navy blue polo and comfy black, velcro-clasping sneakers (Cole Haan.) To contrast my rather youthful-inspired attire, I deliberately didn't shave, not that there is much to shave to begin with (another blessing from my genes.)

When I arrived at work, I was surprised with an airline ticket to San Francisco from my boss and her husband (thank you DCP & MP.) It's been nearly ten years since I've visited SFO and am very much looking forward to a little vacation, especially since I have a handful of friends down there; a nurse, a film maker, a foodie, a dj, and yes, another foodie.

My day of surprises continued as a friend dropped off a box of appetizing pastries for me and my boss to share (thank you RH.)

At half past noon or so, a pair of attorneys I've recently befriended dropped by the shop whereupon I was granted leave to join them for lunch. We moseyed our way to the market, where one of them was able to work her magic and get us an outdoor table at the quaint Café Campange (Good job GB!)

The sun was strong, as it was high, as we watched tourists navigate their way through bustling Post Alley we kept our cool by indulging ourselves with chilled rosé, and Hendrick's and tonics. The food was tasty, as we knew it would be. I had a wonderful green bean salad with mushrooms, onions and pork rillet (mmmm...) and for birthday dessert a house-made apricot sorbet (mmmm... again.)

Over the course of two and a half hours, our conversation revolved around, naturally, food, booze, and relationships. Where are favorite haunts are; who we know and adore: our families, our friends, our bartenders; our habits and patterns at work and at home; where we've been and where we want to go; the virtues of imbibing; our relationship track records; and how far away happy hour was. I was among kindred spirits and we were steadily getting lit.

Back at the tower, it was a wee bit hard to concentrate as all I could think about was my next cocktail, come happy hour. Promptly after closing time at the shop, I found myself seated at the bar at Vessel with one of my newly acquainted like-hearted spirits enjoying a quick round of spirits before meeting up with some friends for a special birthday dinner. (Funny how just one round, turns into two... (Thanks DR!))

Six o'clock came too soon and my friend escorted me home where, shortly after, I met two of my closest friends and we set out for West Seattle, the neighborhood I called home for much of my growing up years. It's wonderful how so much in this world is cyclical and I often find it such a delight when a circle is completed and starts anew.

Friday, being the eve of the Sabbath, is when Shabbat dinner occurs. A Jewish tradition that I've been recently exposed to and embraced in to by a dear friend of mine and her family. As we arrived to my friend's mother's home, we opted to take advantage of the warm, early evening sun and chose to seat ourselves outside on the patio where we enjoyed a bit of coffee, some white wine, apples, smoked salmon and Fleur d'âne cheese (mmmm!!!) (So Continental, I know.)

A few hours later, as the sun sank lower in the horizon, we returned indoors and decided to start dinner. I was given a kippa to wear, my first time ever, I was really excited. There was a fairly noticeable Jewish population at my high school (in fact my friend's older brother went to my high school, he was the quarterback) and I always wondered about yamikas when I saw them and here I was, wearing one on my birthday!

We lit candles and offered prayers to my friend's ancestors and family and then seated ourselves at the dinner table where we chanted more prayers; blessings were doled out, one even over the telephone to my friend's little sister in San Francisco (the nurse--see, everything is cyclical;) Manischewitz; breaking of bread; and finally dinner itself. We had a feast from the Holy Land: falafel, tabouli, chop chop salad with feta, humus, pita (very thin and made with whole wheat,) babaganouj; and for birthday dessert: sesame cookies and cardamom cake (mmm!)

Another part of Shabbat dinner is revisiting a piece of the Scriptures and reflecting upon it. We were told, per my request, of the story of David and Jonathan. The very same David who slew Goliath. David, youngest son of Jesse, of Bethlehem, was quite the warrior. He befriended Jonathon, eldest son of Saul, the King of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin. David's military prowess positioned him as a possible rival of Jonathan's for Saul's Crown. Saul, in order to protect his dynasty, essential had David exiled hoping to eliminate him as a threat to the throne. Ironically, David eventually became King.

Before David's exile, David and Jonathan's deep regard and admiration for one another led them to form a covenant that is again was renewed while David was in the wilderness. Much speculation surround the manner of relationship they may or may not have had: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_and_jonathan . Read into it what you will, but, the Jewish interpretation of entering into a relationship, be it friendship or otherwise, for the sake of the relationship itself and not the quantitative benefits that could potentially be accessed through said relationship, as a key to an enduring and fulfilling bond is a lesson I cherish from this story. Basically, be friends with people for who they are and not what they can get for you.

And at the end of the evening, it is among the company of such genuine friends I found myself, and no material value can be placed upon that. For these friends, I am so utterly grateful to have them in my life. What a wonderful and rich birthday and night.

The Feast

It has been three years since I last laid eyes on my father. Three years that have vanished so swiftly. Three different domiciles I have dwelled in; three different lives in which I've witnessed a half a dozen weddings, twice as many heartaches, thrice as many holidays and six times as many celebrations. Three years.

Word of my father's coming presence to my province, was made known to me, as was his arrival, alongside his desire to see me whilst here, through my mother. With my aunt, his youngest sibling, I spoke, as the sun past its zenith, and a call was issued to all of House Umali residing within the demesne; swiftly did word travel.

Much surprised, was I, as I arrived, a mere three hours later, four of eight of my father's siblings were there; my uncle, second eldest, whom I have not seen since several, five mayhap, birth anniversaries past; also in attendance, assorted aunts all of whom extended me regards of the highest affection; the eldest of my cousins; as well as a wave of blithesome children--cousins, nieces and nephews, all of whom are far too clever and extraordinarily talented for their appearance; a belladonna of seven years who has proclaimed whence adulthood should strike she is to be an artiste (an un-married one at that;) a champion wordsmith whose lexicon has more depth than most adults posses; a preeminent fencer and student of the disciplines of the Eastern defensive arts; and a rising athlete who is on the cusp of international notoriety. Quite apparent, it has become, that the scions of House Umali continue to perpetuate our lineage with much distinction. Praise be to our Lord. Amen.

In a great hall, two tables, round, lay heavy, laden with the bountiful yield of the Earth; fish, fowl and beast--all were abundant, whether stewing in simple, yet flavorful sauces, fried to a golden crisp, or heavily showcasing exotic spices of the East, the aromas from the kitchen incessantly goaded our appetites as seemingly endless course after gratifying course was presented.

Wine flowed freely as did stories of glories past and present. Three years worth, and more. Glasses were raised, toasts were offered and songs were sung on this, our rather impromptu, joyous occasion. With a nod toward the generous genetics of our bloodline and gleaming pride in our House's progeny, we concluded our feast with familial bonds rekindled, advantageous alliances renewed and a fortune cookie that foretold: "You will have good luck and overcome many hardships."

Long live House Umali. Praise be to our Lord. Amen.

View from the Top

View from the Top (x2)

Going up?

"Is that a barista drink?" 

I had just sat down and was waiting for my fellow tour guide to arrive and join me for coffee, as we always do before giving our tour, Design Details (http://seattlearchitecture.org/,) as a man in a plaid shirt, jeans and aviator style eye-glasses, shoulders raised giving him almost a hunch-like appearance, and holding the day's newspaper approached me and asked, "Is that a barista drink? Can I have your free drink?" The man didn't appear down-and-out, and though he was dressed like a hipster, my feeling was he had been dressing as such for the last twenty to thirty years or so and not a follower of any particular fleeting fashion fad.

It wasn't that early, but it was Saturday morning, at 8:30, and my soy latte hadn't quite kicked in. "Uh, I suppose...," I replied.

"This weekend, if you buy a barista drink, you get one free," he explained.

"Can I have your free drink?" he continued.

"Sure," I responded, still not fully comprehending what was going on. The gentleman went up to the cashier and asked if he could have my free drink and was informed the free drink had to be ordered while the original order was placed. The man started to get a bit upset so I tried to soothe things over, "It's okay, my friend is on her way. How about you can have her free drink?" I suggested. This seemed to work; he calmed down, took a seat and started to read his paper.

"Is your friend single? Does she have a fiancé, a boyfriend?" he asked.

"Uh... I'm not certain. We've never really discussed such things before," I tried to deflect.

"Of course you wouldn't think to ask," he quipped, implying he was aware of my sexuality. "How old is she?" he continued.

"I'm not sure, really, late-twenties, I guess." I shrugged my shoulders. "She's getting ready to start grad school, soon." I added. The gentleman smiled, chuckled to himself and got a gleam in his eye.

My friend showed up and I swiftly facilitated the procurement of the gentleman's complimentary beverage. While he left to use the restroom, I muttered under my breath to my friend, who is indeed single, "If he asks, say you're a lesbian, and we're leaving as soon as your drink is ready."

"What?" She was so confused Before we could sneak out of the coffee shop he returned from the restroom.

"Do you ever watch bull fights?" he asked.

My friend and I looked at each other, "Uh, no, not really," we mumbled.

"There's a matador and a bull, and the matador fights the bull and he has a red cape and raises is up and down and says, 'Olé. Olé!'" With his stiff arms he demonstrated just how he would flash a cape in front of a charging bull then turned, took his seat, resumed reading his paper and enjoying his free latte.

Barely controlling our giggles, we swiftly left the premises and took a detour to the Seattle Architecture Foundation (SAF) office in case he might decide to pursue us.

"Olé, olé!" We laughed to ourselves and I relayed to her my encounter with the gentleman prior to her arrival.

At the office, while catching up on the latest happenings of the foundation and each other's lives my friend received an incoming phone call. "Who is T. M.?"

I got so excited, I almost lost my breath. "That's the attorney who has the office at the top of the N.L. Tower and took us up there on our last tour!"

"Hello?" she answered. "Hi, yes, we do have a tour today. That'd be wonderful. We'll see you around 10:15, 10:20. Thanks. Bye." Apparently we were going up to the top yet again. My spirits were lifted as the N.L. Tower has always been one of my favorite buildings in the Emerald City and it had taken me almost 31 years to get to the top and here I was, four weeks later, about to go up again.

Completed in 1929, the N.L. Tower is the Emerald City's quintessential Art Deco skyscraper. Sleek, tall, and self-assured, with seemingly endless vertical lines, it speaks of an optimism prevalent in our country during the Age of Jazz, as our nation asserted itself at the forefront of the international stage after the outcome of the First World War. Created to resemble a mountain (built of granite, marble and over 30 different colors of flecked bricks, all of which gradually become lighter the higher in elevation,) adorned with snow-capped peaks (of terracotta,) and evergreen trees (metal spandrels,) this "mountain," even has a "cavern" (the rather dark and narrow main lobby, sometimes referred to as having the appearance of the domain of a "civilized caveman.") Intricate, hand-carved brass window frames, mullions, doors, and on the interior, ceilings, elevator frames and plaques adorn this modern temple to commerce and industry. Everywhere your eye rests exquisite detail can be drunken in and enjoyed, and the same patterns, motifs and level of craftsmanship can even be found on the top of the building, both on the interior as well as the exterior.

When our tour began my excitement and enthusiasm got the better of me, and my often prevalent shy, demure side (at least in the presence of strangers) faded into the background of my subconsciousness. Knowing that my friend and I were invited back to the N.L. Tower, filled me with such solid confidence at the impression we left with our last tour a month prior, I immediately jumped right into the swing of things as our current group departed the office. Never once looking at my note cards, I shared with our small audience my comprehensive knowledge of the area's local lore, the history of various buildings, the people involved with shaping our skyline and also pointed out often overlooked details that make a building or a space that much more special.

The N.L. Tower wasn't the only skyscraper we ascended that day. Our tour terminated at the L.C. Smith Tower in Pioneer Square, where we, once again, were invited up to the observation deck near the top of the historic building. The Architecture Foundation has a on-going partnership with the Smith Tower, and the Tower's Historian is also a dear friend of mine, as well as an inspirational mentor. All-in-all, it was a bright finish to what appeared to might have possibly been another gray day. The old adage: "It's always good to have friends in high places," certainly proved true on this day.