Warning Number One: I'm drunk.
Wwarning Numebr Two: I'm very drunk.
Tonight was date night. Mr. A and I headed out to San Diegp's Gaslamp district, to have an official date -- dinner and dancing -- before I take off for a week. We landed at The Strip Club, a place where you grill your own steaks. Nothing too raunchy or declasse, I pomise.
We were promised a 15 minute wait. 30 minutes later, no table. I was definitely annoyed, and plotting an asking to make up for it -- free dessert? a drink while we wait? -- when our beeper finally flashed red.
When we placed our order, Mr. A and I both were eying a 20 oz. porterhouse steak. That, with side dishes, a salad and dessert, would be plenty, so I asked if we could share it.
The server told is there's a $5 fee.
"Is there any chance you could waive that?" I asked.
"They just started this policy, so they're being really strict." She was totally enthusiastic, and made me feel like she'd actually want to be my friend if she weren't so busy rejecting epople's special requests.
After dinner, we wandered around downtown as we contemplated our next move -- to dance, or not? And then I got an idea. Basilio!!!
Basilio, you see, is Bacchus incarnate. Fifty-something, with soft ringlets and a wine drinker's paunch, ready to break out into dance whenever the moment strikes him. Basilio.
He opened a new bar a few months ago, and we'd never made it over. Tonight was the night.
When we got to the door, the hostess's eyes lit up. "Come in! Have a seat anywhere!"
And then I saw him. Basiiiiilio. Sitting at the bar, serving absinthe, on the house, to everyone who was still around at this late our. We did the Euro kiss kiss and took a seat next to him.
He served us some absinthe, made a martini on the house with some promotional vodka for some guys from Vegas who were visiting. (Basilio saw them walking past his bar, went outside and called him in. Four hours earlier, they were still there.)We all danced flamenco.
Mr. A and I danced the tango.
We ate a chocolate cake layered with mousse, sponge and homemade whipped cream.
We talked about orchids in Belize with a guy who builds bookcases.
At one point, Basilio asked Mr. A if I like to be spanked.
I almost slapped him, then asked him if he likes men.
My fingers feel like mush now. I can't believe there haven't been more typos. Damn, I am coherent. What a disappointment.
Gained: Not the split plate I asked for, but it's been a magnificcent evening.
