A cold Valentines day. I drive into the city to keep a date with my girlfriend Julie. We have an ongoing pact, if not involved with an amour we dine together as only high powered women with a love for exceptional food can. Last year we dined at the Mandarin and allowed a guy to tag alongw ith us. He was doomed the poor sot. I don't recall his name, nor even what he looked like. But he was a self proclaimed millionaire who professed a love for exotic women. Even by high school standards he was cheap - we paid for dinner. Afterwards we danced at the club atop the Essex. I should say Julie and I danced, the guy - let's call him Moe - watched. So this year Julie and I plan a redux of Valentines day, sans millionaire. We pop into the China Club - packed. We grab a drink hoping the guy to my right gets stood up so we can have 2 seats at the bar. No such luck, she shows - a leggy blonde who appears to be dating down. We can only imagine how much she's going to milk the guy for the honor of a date on Valentines day.
We're sipping our cocktails - a vodka infused ditty, planning our next move when a a man approaches. He's got a great smile, capably chat with both of us and then invites us to share dinner. His name is Johnnie and if there's one thing my chica and I are, it's game. So we pop into his Cadillac CTS and head to the East Village. We slip into a tiny little Italian joint with more wait staff than patrons. We order the Lobster Fra Diavolo, Pasta Carbonara and polish off several bottles of Prosecco. Of course dessert is a must so we order a chocolate torte.
Johnnie looks like he's in the midst of a beautiful dream, all the while smiling. Julie and I are replete, having just reminded ourselves that Valentine's Day is all about food.
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