We just got back from a wine tasting and food eating trip to Santa Barbara. Notable events include my finally having tried fois gras and Chris forcing me to eat a yellow raisin* gastrique. There was also the requisite death march shopping excursion, minibar-demolition, and fist-fights for the camera. All the usual suspects, but nothing was as notable as dinner on Saturday night.

We had reservations at a place called Epiphany; we walked by it post-deathmarch and peeked in for the once-over. Looked nice, but what’s this a few doors down – Bouchon? Wait, as in Thomas Keller Bouchon? No way. Lets just see if they have anything available. They do, right now you say? The patio is fine. We were hungry, thirsty, and Bouchon is the closest we’ll ever get to the French Laundry this millenium. We’ll take it. We get a nice secluded table for two, a great bottle of wine and nibble on some of the best baquette I’ve had. It was pretty much nibble nibble sip sip for an unknown length of time until I heard Chris’s voice drifting through into my bliss, something about Paula Abdul just walked in. I sigh, mmm this wine is SO good, is the vineyard nearby? Oh, appointment only? Scuuuuuze me. And this BREAD. Can you please bring us more?

Enter Miss Abdul into my periphery as my brain registered what my husband just said. Yup definately her, with a very young boy toy date. The maitrede tells her she can have whichever table she likes and she does a beeline for us, the bitch wants OUR table?! Oh HELL to the no! < -- Then I went from zero to Whitney in one hot nanosecond, kicked off my heals and we had this crazyass skank-ho fight right there in Bouchon. Jusk kidding, she plopped down at the table next to us.

She wasn't at all the 'three kinds of crazy' like she acts on Idol, as Chris put it. She was a well-behaved most pleasant dinner date. She asked me nicely to please pass the butter and wouldn't let me pay the bill either. Charming. It was all Simon this and Simon that though for a while which was sort of rude but whatever. And hey, I'd be mad too if I had to show up at 4pm for an 8pm shift to sit there for hours between "its's just not for me DAWG" and "honestly it was like a bad cabaret act, precocious and horrible" all night.

Sadly, no pictures of the food or the abdul - despite my urges. She was practically staring me in the face and it would have been totally obnoxious with the flash. I just didn't have it in me to destroy the nice dinner vibe we all had going on.

*I don't eat raisins, I haven't for years and could argue I've eaten only one in all my years on earth, and it landed me in a hospital subdued by a straight-jacket and strapped to a guerney. The gastrique doesn't count, btw, because it was just a sauce somehow flavored with raisins and contained no debris or remnants thereof.

{tags }