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, 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.