MOON

Brussel's Friterie or "Papa's got a brand new dish"

2010-02-28T18:23:00.000-08:00

My father called me the other day with the waves washing up on the sand to inform me that it was 32 degrees in Martinique (and also make sure it wasn't too cold in my freezing and distant Canada). He has been claiming forever that he, the eternal single male born on the day of Saint Perfect, would begin a world tour on my 18th birthday. I never really thought it would happen. In fact, I left our tiny cardboard house 3 weeks after my majority, and frankly, daddy looked so sincerely attached to his electric blue junk-car, a Golf 2 brown-taped and crazy-glued from the rear wheel to the windshield through the bench, that I could never imagine him living a life without her. I guess that the heat of Martinique is nicer than the one of a patched motor on fire. Seriously... my father has a wandering soul and of course he decided that his kids would have the same. In fact, we have been on vacations every year of our childhood, no matter if we had to make a financial compromise by wearing all year long the same horrible white sneakers bought at the grocery store, with a sole as thin as a crepe suzette and three scratches that do not remain sticky over a month. And so I was faithfully and ashamedly wearing these red velvet pants with elephant legs and embroidered colorful flowers in my 3rd grade, in order to go to a skiing trip and a surfing expedition the same year. Talk about a strong business sense.

Regrettably, our family deals didn't always worth it given that I found myself in my host family in Berlin with an emotionally depressed Goth girl who has never addressed to me more than two words “Good night”. Oddly, I’ve never rested well during this week. This was just before our bus crashes on the way home and I managed to get the motion sickness. For London, my girlfriends and I slept in a perfect replica of Santa Claus’ home as our host family, a single old lady, collected every little thing that was related to Christmas. We eventually survived by squatting the fast food of Piccadilly Circus seeing that she could only cook Holiday cookies and every “real” meal were prepared by her dear microwave and basically looked like shit. Needless to say traveling left sometimes a bad taste in my mouth. But my supportive father always had this deep cheerful voice with cool chuckles of a young man, who would have been smoking blunts listening to reggae music while I was away, to tell me “let it go my darling, you’re young and you got time, all you need to remember is that travel broadens the mind”. Once he made me laugh, he was then speaking with the wisdom that comes only from experience. Like a man who has dropped his camera while getting drunk on the roof of a New York hotel, and who now stands up in front of his daughter to tell her the importance to use a resistant necklace for camera when she takes a few self-portraits in her bedroom.

Alternately, family trips were priceless. When it wasn’t the tire of the blue car bursting on the road to La Rochelle, it was my sister who had a nervous breakdown in a Montreal's parking threatening she would return to Paris by walking, or my brother about to strangle the monitor of our Greek summer camp on the boat from Greece to Italy (I guess he could not stand him anymore). Fortunately, Daddy-Mummy, as I called him for a long time, always had the remedy to our ills of pimply teens that hated everything and everyone: yummy food in a nice restaurant. He insisted early on that we absolutely love to eat everything. From beef brain to frog legs, everything went in our stomachs. He therefore introduced us to one his favorite guilty pleasure in his beloved Brussels: snack on the go at a Friterie. A friterie is a traditional chip shop in Belgium as a caravan along the highway selling different type of Mitraillette. Literally a submachine gun. Fundamentally delicious junk food. It’s made of a tender demi-baguette stuffed of fried meat (my favorite is definitely merguez sausage seasoned with paprika) and salted crispy French fries sprayed of a cosmic quantity of sauce - hot sauce Harissa married with mayonnaise is wicked! And then, the best way to let it all go down is to grab a typical Brussels waffle dusted with confectioner’s sugar sold by a street vendor on the Grand Place. It’s dense, totally sweet and delicious. And Mister Poo, oops Mister Pee is not too far to continue the visit.

La Paryse or "Nice to eat you".

2010-02-06T13:49:00.001-08:00

Long before being an eye-catching-cherry-blossom, I used to be a European dandelion flower in the closing state, freshly potted at the foot of this massively erect Canadian Sequoia. Its incredibly long chocolate trunk is thick and quite soft to the touch, perfectly waxed, showing off his ready-to-explode veins. Yes, I’m hugging him in the front of Starbucks coffee. HE is a Torontonian basketball player of 6 foot 6 inches.

The problem is, I do not speak a word of English. Of course I am totally and childishly giddy about fulfilling my teenage French girl’s fantasy of courting an American sport player just like any cheesy typical hip-hop video. However, I’m now about to climb The Tree and clearly regret having spent my college English classes scribbling hearts, flowers and stars and to not have learnt more than “The pen is on the table”. Indeed, I simply seem to be a duck in a g-string and jean pants repeating “What, what, what?” to all of his extremely articulated and slowly pronounced words until we miraculously reach the restaurant I recommended, La Paryse.

After silently waiting for 20 long minutes in the tight corridor of this narrow jam-packed joint, Honey and I sit, smack in the middle of the crowd, shyly flirting, until the friendly waitress finally introduce her with a simple menu of a couple of messy burgers. We then order the popular cheese and bacon one (as cheap as $6 before taxes), a large portion of golden French fries and a creamy thickened vanilla milkshake. While his legs are endlessly trying to fondle with mine under the table, his skillful hands start to gesticulate in the air as I gently draw my missing English words on the placemat with colorful crayons, making us look like a clumsy but quite sensual mime act.

Now, the foreplays are over and he is getting naughty grabbing the authentic-tasty burger with two slices of bacon, a generous portion of grilled onions, chopped dill pickles, grated mozzarella topped with lettuce, a tomato slice, two spoons of mayonnaise and one spoon of Dijon mustard. And I r-e-a-l-l-y wish I was the tiny toothpick inserted in the middle of this dirty mix. Otherwise, he might just eat me right now, tonight, by this 50s American-style snack bar that has a little something of my yellow kitchen. I mean, he is a hunk mastering a huge hambourgeois with expert fingers, and his luscious lips sipping milkshake with this fine straw are tempting, so it may be a juicy idea that he just goes down on me, right here, just a little bit more down.

Lost in my fantasy, I blunder aloud. “And after all, your penis is under the table!”

I guess I must look like the world’s biggest slut now since he is starring at me, completely thunderstruck, wide open mouth with a piece of lettuce between the teeth. Well, seemingly not. He first calmly says, "It's comforting that you bring the sex topic up to date. Indeed, considering that I will be in Montreal for only one session, which is three months and a half, this is equal to 106 days, which we subtract five days per week of training that is approximately 22 days per month (because you already know that there is NO way that we meet during the week Darling, don't you?), minus every games' night, the four days visit of my parents in November, without forgetting the weekend of Thanksgiving, etc. What we have? 1 day per month? So 3, perhaps 4 if I can manage to be available in December." then goes into a trance, "And what is all this crap? This little date scenario where Ken is supposed to take Barbie to a nice restaurant and a good movie in order to have sex with her is simply b-u-l-l-s-h-i-i-i-t!" to FINALLY finishes with a honeyed ton and psycho eyes, "Me Tarzan, you Jane. Let's fuck babe."

"WHAT?"

Opera or Fashion faux-pas ain't swagg.

2010-01-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

He is part of a few classy man in Montreal, well I’m not really sure. I don’t see him often, which probably helps a lot, but as far as I remember, he is everything a modern man should look like: well-groomed, clean-cut and confident. Unfortunately – and strictly from a physical point of view, he is also a former boyfriend. I saw him the other day at The First held at the nightclub Opera. After two too brief hello kisses on my cheeks, he wished me a very brief “Happy New Year” and I replied more briefly “Thanks, you too” as I was waiting for my first Cognac-cranberry of the night, while analyzing his swagg. Unique walk apparently not mastered by all.

Last year, the first edition of the event at I-Nightclub was promising. Also, my always-ready-to-go girl, as well as a promoter of many hot parties in Montreal, recently told me with great fury “It’s going to be biiiiiggerrrrr”. She actually always says that, because as a promoter, she, of course, has to be both very excited and extremely fascinating to give the impression it will be the greatest night ever. And she apparently does it well because we end up being partners in crime for the second edition at Opera this year, even if I am usually not a big fanatic of this club. Well, on one side, the club is huge with impressive high ceilings, white cream walls color changing at the discretion of the blue lights, great bars with attractive bottles and cozy VIPs booths. Plus, the multiple curtains and crystal balls are the must for this sensual ambiance. Opera is indeed an elegant and hot mix between Ibiza’s club and Miami’s. Contrariwise, prepubescent girls with fake boobs dancing on pure techno music with thirty-something bodybuilder men, orange tanned, tribal tattooed, and tighten in a glittering extra-small t-shirt, with a bottle of gel on their fauxhawk are simply not my cup of tea.

Anyway, it’s a new year and we are swinging our bodies to the music of amazing DJs, in an incredibly crowded Opera that suddenly seems to be a tiny sardine box. The highlight of the event is surely the fact that despite an extreme traffic (the tickets were almost sold out at least two weeks before), the promoters remain cordial with an extra Colgate smile for every lady. As the sexy bartender looks quite at ease serving a dozen of drinks at once, in her mini skirt and three-quarter of her breasts out of her bustier - I guess she already knows that there are some concessions to make in business! Plus, in order to go to the bathroom, I naturally learn to squeeze myself between preselected h-o-t bodies. "Oh sorry, I didn't mean to fall into your muscular arms! (...) Oops I did it again!" The flat of the night is this drunken buffoon who has the audacity to ask me if I love women. Ok, I admit that I am constantly dredged by girls and never clearly reject their freaky proposals. Except that my brain is right now swimming into the damn Cognac, and needless to say the thoughts of my personal sex life are too drowning in the Cranberrian Ocean to formulate a clear and sensible answer. So I merrily inform the dude that my name is Tiffanie and by the way “This is none of your business”. “Ah! I knew you were lesbian! I could tell by your style” slurs the damn fool.

Right, it’s the style and not the clothes that makes somebody, but observing this guy makes me seriously question his definition of S-T-Y-L-E. Wearing pointy white shoes with a black suit not fitted at all, probably borrowed from his daddy who obviously has way more fat than this little earthworm, is not exactly the right choice to achieve the status of gentleman. No need to ask if his mummy had checked his knot before he left the house, because the tie hanging awkwardly on his dick tells me all! Plus, he and his friend make an interesting couple à la black pulp fiction. Of course, he also rocks pointyyy shoes, but the best part is the hair brushing on the top of a too short all pink suit showing off his black socks . For God's sake, they fortunately didn't dress like the fatty guy afar, who openly doesn't give a fuck about the dress code, and dares to wear a way too baggy jean with a white t-shirt printed of cannabis herb and white sneakers, for a perfect late-90s look. Oh jeez, in the midst of a mature and stylish crowd, they were absolutely lovely!

HAPPY NEW FASHIONABLE YEAR!!!

*The First is happening every first of January and organized by Cleofa Promotion, Mylk &amp Sugar Ent and Cartel Ent amongst other teams. This year, the event was held at the unique luxurious nightclub Opera located at the 32th of Ste-Catherine St W at the corner of St-Laurent St. A mature crowd was jamming in a relaxing and distinguished ambiance, helped by Djs Short Cut, Kwite Sane, Platinum D and Eddie Lewis playing resolutely modern urban music all night long.

The Sparrow or The single-ish syndrome.

2009-12-22T10:05:00.000-08:00

My job is pretty chill, thanks to my recruitment supervisor. And thanks to my super-active manager who is doing a damn good job for the staff appreciation events and never misses to be the life of the party. We’re indeed having our annual Christmas party at The Sparrow. I heard from an en-vogue girlfriend this gastro-pub located in the Mile-End is tremendous. Plus, the designed flyer said it’s open-bar - in canary yellow characters – and what a good way to celebrate their newly-acquired liquor license. I already imagined myself sitting at the European style bar in a cute sparkling dress, just as happy as a cheerleader, ordering a fancy and super-alcoholic cocktail, engaging in a small talk with the British bartender, eye the bosses of my company from the corner, and discreetly order another one.

“It’s mot!@*rfuck**g COLD outside!” The first brake to my flawless plan is that the little engine I am, can’t wear a lovely dress neither sexy heels tonight. So here I am, trapped in basic pants and frizz hair, when the heat rises at 6 pm with homemade cocktails dedicated to our company: Grand-Marnier, Prosecco and grapefruit juice with a blackberry embedded inside. Interesting attempt but my palate doesn’t like bitter taste. Well, my manager seems to enjoy, given she drinks as fast as the lightning speed, while a certain someone remains glued to me about a conversation which – I’m sorry - I can’t remember the topic. Fortunately I enjoy the traditional atmosphere of the place. The warm wood, cozy lamps and sparrows’ wallpaper are a perfect mix between my Grand-ma kitsch and the revisited vintage style of today.

About to have dinner, I consider my options. 1 – The bosses are sitting at the bosses’ table. 2 – Each department is respectively seated together following the same hierarchy they have in the office, except the French-speaking people who tend to form a “mixed” crowd. Needless to say, there is in reality no option but the empty seat. I end up with a awesome and very-scoped-on-the-goose man #1, a quite cute man #2, a man #3 with crispy adventures, an usually cold copy-editor who’s actually quite nice, and of course my particularly tipsy manager. Amazing how Super-Santa-Claus has the power to bring people together.

Cool, someone engages the conversation on where everybody comes from, until someone else dares to talk about Montreal's winter. Well, too bad, the mot!@*rfuck**g coldest winter in the whole galaxy apparently deserves an entire conversation - How do your ears feel when it's -25 outside and you forgot your hat at home? And what are your reactions when you're running late for work and need to plow your car for two hours? To break the ice, the hors d’oeuvres are then served by a courteous waitress: delightful oysters with a spicy sauce, veal breast nuggets with anchovy, and also sweet caramelized onions spread on bread. The main course is composed of a German dish called Spaetzle (basically home-made noodles with onions and artichokes) and braised lamb shoulder with olives, accompanied by fried potatoes, roasted roots and a surprising plate of Brussels sprouts with bacon and chestnuts, all served in disparate vintage plates. Original, unique and very rich in calories - Hey, it's Christmas after all! Mission accomplished for the Britishhh chief, I feel like I am in an old cottage deep in the wet and foggy UK. It’s so good but so heavy that I have to detach the button of my pants if I want to swallow at least one very-tempting profiterole. And I still manage to respect my personal policy to only do number two at home - agreement apparently not shared by all (!!!).

The party is then going on with our intimate guests. As a real gossip lover, it’s really interesting to find out who dates who and scoping the place out for a funny looking couple. Of course, I can’t actually say anything out loud because it’s very childish; but I am also supposed to say something like they look great and can’t put a word on how happy they look – just to help them forget the 30 pounds they respectively gained since their wedding. This is a very single-ish syndrome. To summarize, I think my co-workers may mind their manners a lot (or might have been as stuffed as I was feeling). Indeed, apart of a few tipsy employees and a couple of typical 80s dance steps, the wildest thing seem to be the office manager who takes her blue-electric-5-inches-Christian-Louboutin off. Ok, been there, done that.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Cafeteria & Suco or The kitty on fire.

2009-12-10T12:19:00.000-08:00

She and I walk on St-Laurent Street toward Prince-Arthur and scop out the scene. Her blind date is an incredibly hairy dude, salted with a super-visible belly and peppered with unbearable effeminate manners. It just feel like we are unintentionally witnessing the "Hell Date" show. "It's not exactly what I expected", she says. I scan him from the head to the toes and reply, "Anyway, let's see what he got".

The three of us move to one of my Montreal favorite spot, Cafeteria, a trendy restaurant-lounge located on the Plateau. The red light special rising in a modern-art décor provides an amazing atmosphere. The Heartbreak Tuesdays are usually perfect for a girls night out to devour Roman style fried calamari ($13 before taxes and services for a generous plate) or Homemade cheese tortellini in a creammmmmy pink sauce ($16) and get warmed up with a few martinis (6 bucks each). Chic and cozy, this is it!

I’m just starting to be comfortable in my role as candle of the night, when I notice he is already fidgeting on his sit like a kitty on fire, who's in a hurry to rub her pussy on the dance floor. I drink half of my Lychee Martini in one sip praying he would stop jiggling before he breaks the chair. He finally opens his mouth to mention that he is the best dancer of Hip-Hop ever and this little lounge is too small to shake his booty. I just can’t resist swallowing the whole lychee saying to myself “I can’t wait to see your moves dear little pussy!”. Needless to say, observing him totally sweating over two songs and a half, while she is desperately trying to maintain a conversation, is not the kind of heat I need before getting my freak on at Suco. Well, there’s always a little selection of men who make your cheeks blush, while, more commonly, there's an impressive gathering of others who are pain in the ass…

Even if it was bound to happen at some point and it now makes perfect sense, I am slack-jacked. We are at Suco, the sophisticated lounge of the Hotel Opus and basically the place to be on a late Tuesday night. And this super hairy overweight guy obviously doesn’t know how to dance. Firstly, he starts to rotate his arms in a counterclockwise direction, and then shuffles back and forth while keeping his legs wide apart and slightly bent, in another words, here is MC Hammer in the 90’s. He secondly executes tragically the outdated moonwalk, and soon after he lifts his palms heavenward while jutting his arms up and down like a hyperactive swimmer. And of course…he never stops. At 3 A.M, she – whom he had barely given attention during these 2 hours of extreme work-out - eventually has to pull him by the arm to leave.

The whole thing appears so hilarious that I am wondering if I'm not watching Albert Brennaman dancing in the movie Hitch, but no, I've just been at Suco with two goofy who dared to look for a date on a random website, with their personal ads cramming between an ad for two Gabon parrots missing, one broken table set to give away, and a “earn $1000 a day online without spending a dime” proposal

JACK~~POT~~!!!

Tiffanie's or Being clumsy in the kitchen ain't easy.

2009-12-04T13:43:00.000-08:00

It really bugs me when people ask me to cook for their little fragile stomachs which like this and don't like that, want it cooked this way and not that way, with no this and extra that. Simply because the boomerang effect of being a perfectionist by nature is that I suddenly become the fourteen years old girl with acne and braces, all panicked and clumsy...

On one side, there is a twenty-something nice gift package, who spends every Sunday at his dear parents house in order to eat THE perfectly cooked spicy beef with sticky rice, of a very present mum listening to his every needs, whom will surely be cooking enough to put the leftover food in labeled tupperwares for his lovely son to take home. On the other side, there is me, a funky-looking young girl, from a scattered worldwide family, with some juicy family reunions happening once in a while, and who happens to cook for others every 36th of the month, trying to keep her concentration on a few pots on the stove and a dish in the oven and ends up looking like an elephant in a porcelain store.

For once, I decide to prepare something for somebody but this time I’m going to take it easy. I'm going to cook rice, buy a whole roasted chicken and these bags of magic powder that miraculously change with some water and a little boost into a three-peppercorn- Dijon-mustard-and-Armagnac sauce. So, after passing ten nail places, fifteen corner-stores, twenty massage places, one French restaurant and thirty-three Chinese ones (It's insane how easy it is to eat at a chinese restaurant and hard to do a grocery when you live in the middle of nowhere!); I finally have all my ingredients to make up my little lie.

The story is that I forgot the sauce on the stove while I was putting my black eyeliner. The rice was overcooked and the meat extremely dry. A minute later, I was opening the door to a way too punctual sexiness, with black make-up on my cheeks, smelling burned food, and presenting my disaster in a very refined style: a ball of rice surrounded by three strips of chicken breast with a fillet of three peppercorn sauce on a square plate. Having of course my biggest Colgate smile on. Well, a smile is an inexpensive way to change your look, isn’t it?

Post-it on my fridge: Put 400g of Tagliatelle in boiling water. Meanwhile sauté two cloves of crushed garlic, one onion finely chopped and 300g of fresh shrimps. Add 60ml of white wine, 2 cans of peeled tomatoes and 1 teaspoon of sugar. Let thicken 15 minutes. Add a can of pitted black olives, 400g of drained and cut artichoke hearts and a few basil leaves. Drain the pasta and mix them with half the sauce. Add Parmesan and the remaining sauce. AND, take a shower – Of course shrimps taste good, but certainly not on you, honey.

Saco & cie or Let the hair do the talking.

2009-11-26T10:13:00.000-08:00

Being young and restless, wrapped in a sexy BCBG black dress, sipping champagne to celebrate New Year Eve's at Time's Supper Club was simply amazing. And my resolution that night could have sounded like a tipsy fantasy, however it eventually appeared to be nothing less than an Epiphany...

"What happened to your hair??!" The first words of my father. I haven't seen him in a year, Paris, 2007. I indeed started wearing my super-short pixie hair earlier that year after an adventurous move to Montreal and having spent several months here, including THAT special night out at Time's. Well, it's not that I particularly cared about the brave new tendency of the 21st century, the short sassy hairstyle, but my Kelis-afro that had neither tail nor head, nor shape nor balance made me certainly look like a wild lioness. But really... while it continued to correspond to my non-conformist mentality, it just no longer made sense with my newly-discovered sophistication. "Apart from that, Dad, I'm fine, thanks."

My roommate had flat mid-length chestnut hair (Oh, you actually dare to call T-H-A-T a hairdo?) and I had this varicolored mop on my head (You too! You call T-H-A-T a hairdo?). No need to mention that Saco seemed to be the lifeline for the shipwrecked we were. We heard about a special-$10-hair-experience offered by the Hair School-Salon through a friend who knew a friend’s friend who first did it and of course loved it (Yes, there’s nothing wrong with being a sheep when it’s time to give your confidence to a new hairdresser). A few days later, I was having the time of my life, squirming on my rotating chair with my hairstylist, himself young and vibrant, rocking green dreads. No seriously… he was so cheerful and creative that I gave him carte-blanche after five minutes (I swear, I’m not always that easy!). I eventually left the salon all smiles with a contemporary afro, with curls that barely reached my ears… They say the motto of Saco is to deliver an affordable luxury within a relaxed and professional environment. Indeed, it’s true.

Being inspired by this little but worthy change – or maybe getting brain waves from Britney Spears - I was a month later in my bathroom with one mirror facing me, one mirror in the back, cutting my hair with the kitchen scissors. Only God knows why I was just very confident of my abilities to be Edward Scissorhands in order to get a fresh and funky mohawk. I’ve slooowly cut very short the sides while I left the top longer, curly and messy to accentuate the powerful contrast. A pile of hair on the floor later - and after returning to the reason- , I was overjoyed to find the final hairdo both fearless and chic, and I never regretted this liberating and revealing moment.

Who ever said long hair is the ultimate symbol of femininity?

The shorter my hair are, the more I enjoy expressing my versatile sexy look.

Le Pois Penché or The big black shark.

2009-11-17T13:21:00.000-08:00

It all started with four black tiger shrimps served on ice with the House cocktail sauce and tomato comfit… or should I say it all started with a big black shark tight in his Dolce & Gabbana jeans and brand-new YSL shoes?

Entering Le Pois Penché around 8 P.M on a typically Canadian cold Friday night to the voice of Edith Piaf and the circa ’20s decor sounds exciting. On one side the hallucinating seafood platter on a client’s table and the permeating smell of a filet mignon freshly cooked with wild mushrooms is mouth-watering. On the other side, I got him, a wealthy African business-man in his early thirties with a few extra pounds but still good-looking. Well… He got this Je-ne-sais-quoi, a mix of Diddy’s class and Clooney’s presence that always catch - but unfortunately not keep - my attention.

While my mate is unpacking his amazing life, self-complimenting his exploits and tripping on his extraordinary future projects, he finds a minute to order the wine, a white Meursault, Domaine Michelot, Sous la Velle ($135 the bottle before taxes and service – Let me tell you something: they’re not all that expensive!). Of course I make sure it tastes particularly wonderful. My instinct tells me it will be a solitary long walk, bottle in hand, with MC I-am-the-King-of-the-world and my-dear-you-know-nothing-at-all in the headphones. Caught in the muse's eyes of the painting in front of me, I hear him say with his forced French accent “We’d like to share the Shrimp cocktail and she’ll take just like me: the Loup de Mer”. (Wait wait wait, did I mention I’d like to have the shrimps and the Loup de Mer? And did I hear WE? And share?)

The four giant shrimps ($22 before taxes and service) look a little bit lonely in their martini glass… but I have to admit that they're delicious and perfect to whet the appetite. Special mention to the House cocktail sauce very tasty and refreshing. Between two sips of wine, here comes the well-known Loup de Mer (Price of the market) that my wannabe Diddy-Clooney particularly enjoys. I’m actually surprised by the presentation of the dish, far from the usual way-too-art-gallery presentation of these self-proclamed hype restaurants. My Mediterranean silver bass is huge (1.5 lbs) but presented in a classic elegant plate with a generous portion of crispy fries and nice asparagus on the side. I eat eve-ry-thing. Well-cooked, well-balanced seasonings and flavorful! It’s just so delightful to have a blast with a dead fish while my date is having so much pleasure to talk about him, himself and he; as my next table neighbor, a 60 years old skin apparently so frustrated, can’t stop starring at my unborn wrinkles.
I really hope for two seconds that Mister has no more room for the dessert - so I'd be free to the third - until the manager personally offers us a Baileys on ice. Let's go for the absolutely savory Profiteroles accompanied of ice cream drizzled with chocolate ($12 before taxes and service). Yummy!

The icing on the cake? Probably when Smart Mouth is about to call me Rebecca or Sheila or any other name in A.

NEXT PLEASE!