You have to understand that I am almost 66-years-old. I still appreciate beautiful women, but have resigned myself to accept that they necessarily view me as an avuncular grandfather.
So while at a trade event in San Diego when a pretty, tall 37-year-old Blonde (athletic Victoria Secret figure) invited me to take dinner with her, I accepted wistfully – thinking thoughts of what had been, but then remembered what was happening.
Most of you will not care, nor remember, my posts about this event in the past. This tradition started shortly after the suicide of an archetypal goddess that I was scheduled to dine with at this annual drug industry event when it was in Denver (my first post of the continuing thread was entitled, Things to do in Denver When You are Dead). Nancy was an executive for the Colorado Rockies. I had known her from childhood, but she would not go out with me then because of my bad reputation. I had fallen in love with her watching an Easter parade. She was the white booted, high-stepping, baton twirling blond leading the thing, reminiscent of the same archetype in the movie, A Face in the Crowd. Not to rehash the whole original story: I had subsequently rescued her away from a raunchy, mountain bar, where some jilted date had abandoned her, and she reciprocated with a simple kiss. I looked for her many years later at her mother's funeral. Nancy and I made a pact over the watchful body to have dinner in Denver. She could finally appreciate my archetype as I had earlier worshiped hers.
At the drug event that year, the freshly dead girl came to me in the form of another blonde, which a waking dream had primed me to expect and watch for. She asked me to dinner out of the blue and I knew from the incongruity that it was Nancy. She has come to me once a year since. I have written the gig up a few times. Always nearly identical. A beautiful tall blonde invites me out of the blue and I have a glorious dining event.
So, now that I am getting used to it, I prepared a little by reserving a chauffer drive Mercedes limousine. I figured it deserved something just a little extra.
The girl showed up as the usual beautiful tall blonde. She explained somewhat sheepishly that our colleagues do not apprecate fine dinning, and suggesed that we go it alone. She was more me than moi, carrying around marked up guides. The first evening was at George’s Modern in La Jolla. A Zagat 26. Beautiful spot. The second was at the Zagat 28 rated Wine Sellars. By this time I was feeling a bit numinous and when I espied a 1947 Cheval Blanc on the list, for a split second I almost ordered it. I have matured, because I didn’t. But when I mentioned that I might, Nancy sat there motionless and just stared back, like women do in dreams when you ask them something but your unconscious mind is not quite ready for the answer.
I can’t remember the name of the third al fresco restaurant in La Jolla overlooking the surf, but it was the best by far. Twenty-six rated, but better than the other two. Can’t remember what I had, either, nor the wine, but it was all great. So I am going to struggle a little and add this update later, because out of this whole dissertation it would be the only service to others proffered. Bottles that evening were half price as a promo, so we drank a couple of extra, hence the memory lapse.
That week was maybe the best one yet (not counting those with my wife, which are the best), so maybe I am not dead yet and can still channel Nancy.
