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.