Since my last post, we returned to that French place of which I previously waxed ecstatically. Our friend, Kevin, met us for lunch and immediately conveyed his displeasure with the decor ("It looks like a diner!"). Things appeared to be heading downhill after Kevin took one look at the menu and proclaimed it not French enough. Hmmm.

Kevin sometimes tends to make insulting and condescending comments to people without really intending to be hurtful or come off sounding like a self-absorbed, entitled prig (which he mostly is but we like him anyway). He sorely lacks certain social graces when it comes to conversing with those he considers the hoi polloi. Specifically, there is no filter: Kevin often shares things that would be better left confined (with chains, if necessary) to his own inner sanctum. I think a character in the old Boston Legal TV series may have been based on him. 

Whenever we hear Kevin begin a sentence with, "Forgive me, but....", we know it's going to be a bumpy night. 

"Forgive me, but your advertising claims that this is authentic Italian food from your mother's own recipes. Were you raised by wolves? Have you tasted this? Has your mother even been to Italy? Because I have and I've never eaten anything like this." 

Or: "Forgive me, but I'd like to buy my tenant a handbag for Christmas and I was wondering where you got your Chanel knockoff? You know, I can smell cheap imitations but my tenant won't know the difference."

"Forgive me but I couldn't help staring. Would you like the name of my barber?"

"Forgive me, but are those culottes you're wearing?"

These forgive-me-but's are generally delivered with the utmost sincerity and, on rare occasions,  accompanied by the tender smile of someone about to utter sweet nothings in the ear of their recipient. 

It's not all forgive-me-but's. With his habit of oversharing, Kevin does himself no favors either. 

Example:  A number of years ago, Kevin, C and I attended funeral services for an elderly Cuban lady. It was a somber affair with many mourners present. In no one's mind could this have been remotely construed to be a gay or frivolous event. Or so we thought. Upon our arrival at the local funeral home, we initially spent a good deal of time in the main entrance hall offering condolences to family members and friends, and attempting to project a dignified, properly melancholy mien. Eventually, it became apparent that the services were about to begin and people started making their way into the large hall containing the casket, a speaker's podium and rows upon rows of folding chairs. As C and I prepared to enter the hall we suddenly noticed that Kevin was nowhere to be be found. Glancing to a far corner, C spotted a group of about a dozen 20- and 30-somethings gathered in a semi-circle around a tall, blonde man seated on the back of a large couch. Kevin was holding court with an audience that appeared to be hanging on his every word.

"Oh lord," said C, fearing the worst and informing me that he'd save our seats if I would be kind enough to go collect Kevin. 

So completely mesmerized was he by his own performance, Kevin failed to see my approach, and thus was I able to overhear the conclusion of a richly detailed recitation of his famous lawn-boy adventure atop a kitchen island, capped off by the emission of steam from a certain bodily orifice. Yes, you read that right. Steam. I'd heard this tale at least a dozen times before that day though I never expected to hear him repeat it at a funeral. And the steam? Who has steam?  Obviously, Kevin's recollections of his priapic adventures need to be taken with a grain of salt, but, at that moment, if I'd had false teeth, they'd have leapt from my mouth and clattered along the tiles until they hit the wall and broke into tiny pieces. There was laughter among a few in the group, some of it uncomfortable, some of it partnered with bug-eyed disbelief. Jaws definitely dropped that day.

I reached across and took Kevin by the arm. "You'd better come with me," I said, "they're about to begin." As his audience dispersed, Kevin registered disappointment that his presentation was cut short. Later, he said he couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed a funeral so much. We never really convinced him that some tales are better left untold (especially at a funeral). As I may have mentioned before, he has no filter. 

Which brings me back to our lunch with Kevin. After making it clear that he was less than impressed with our choice of dining establishments, he sat across from us in the booth and adopted an inscrutable expression as we waited to place our orders. With the server's approach towards the table, my colon clenched in apprehension of hearing those dreaded words. "Forgive me, but...." 

I happen to like the server, who may also be the owner. She's French, at any rate, quite lovely, and just happens to live out here in the hinterlands near us. During a conversation, she disclosed to me that she came to the U.S. from Nice, whereupon I mentioned that some of my mom's family came from Cannes (though that be circa the 1620's), which is right next door to Nice, and, anyway, we kind of bonded over that so I didn't want Kevin to muck up this nice vibe we had going. Shockingly, after requesting and being denied an item not featured on the lunch menu, he managed to remain fairly restrained and the meal passed without incident. C and I survived to dine there another day!

Still, despite his eccentricities (and they are legion), sordid preoccupations (money, status, The Daily Mail, Diego Barras, et. al.), quirks and pretensions, Kevin has an upside. He was outstanding in his profession and earned a well-deserved national reputation as one of the best in his field. He gives generously to various charities, takes in strays (of both the human and canine variety, some of whom linger in his house for years), he is erudite, witty, a world traveler  (although, for him, the U.S. consists entirely of L.A. County and the East Coast) and, more often than not, great fun to be around. While I have come to consider him a very good friend, I will admit that he can be a mixed bag at times.   

The following evening, a party was held a couple of burbs over. Thrown by C's other best friend, Rick, and his partner, Franco, the party did not include Kevin amongst the attendees. This is because Rick does not like Kevin (that fucking idiot pops up most often in Rick's assessment of Kevin) and Kevin does not like Rick (a typical loud and aggressive New Yorker, snorts Kevin of Rick, even though Kevin, himself, is a New Yorker, albeit one of a very different stripe). 

Rick and Franco, however, are a study in contrasts. Rick is large and in charge, the host with the most and the alpha male of his domain. Franco is more beta, I guess,  low-key, funny and domestic. As a couple, they love to throw parties (of the dinner variety and otherwise) and there's generally one happening on any given holiday, usually on the enclosed patio surrounding the pool (which takes up most of the back yard). They generally spend thousands of dollars feeding the invitees (and their tag-alongs) and plying them with drinks. With his powerful personality, Rick, while not a big drinker, is both the orchestrator and conductor of these gatherings; Franco, for his part, cheerfully ferries food trays back and forth from the kitchen to the tables outside, spending much time hovering over pots and pans, stirring up one thing or another. 

In all honesty, however, I was not exactly jonesing to attend this party, which I knew was going to be a major blowout with a few select participants getting seriously shitfaced--as is their wont--and becoming unbearably obnoxious. Personally, I don't drink and my party-boy days are in the rearview mirror of a car I don't even own anymore. Nor am I much for making small talk.  But...Rick and C have been friends for over 20 years, and he and Franco are always there for everyone else, so we feel like we really should show up whenever we're invited to their home. Even when it's our wedding anniversary. Which it was last Saturday night. Too bad our wedding anniversary coincided with the party being thrown for an old friend who moved to California several years ago and was only back for a short visit. That's the way it goes. Que sera, sera. 

Against all expectations, I had a really good time at Saturday night's party. There were people I'd never met before and some I hadn't seen in years. There were others I'd never liked too much to begin with but who seemed suddenly to possess more charm than I remembered. One of the two Billy's was there, the other (Straight Billy) being sorely MIA. Of course, Gay Billy is great fun and always has good stories about his days palling around with Sylvia Miles in New York. The crowd, while all-male, was, otherwise, very diverse with regards to age and race. And the food, an Italian spread, was incredible, the desserts (Argentinian cake, chocolate mousse and tiramisu) were decadent, and the bartender was shirtless (Huzzah!). Instead of being standoffish, I found myself participating in numerous conversations with a certain degree of enthusiasm, which is so NOT my usual M.O. Honestly, I don't know what happened but I'm glad it did!

True, the usual drunks were screaming and howling with hurricane force, but I was (secretly) pleased to note that their act really didn't garner much attention, other than frequent annoyed grimaces. 

The honoree, and star of the soiree, seemed to be having a good time although, seeing as how he's only in town for a few days, his company was in high demand. Since the party started at 6, and we arrived shortly afterwards, we thought 10:00 a perfectly appropriate time to take our leave. I was having a great time so didn't want to harsh my mellow by overextending our stay. For the heavy-duty revelers, the night was still young, and I have to admire their determination to party like it's 1999. Some seemed a bit taken aback that we were going home so early but I thought I'd done really well. Midnight comes earlier for Cinderella these days so don't push it! I wanted to say but didn't. So, while everyone got suddenly busy toasting the shirtless bartender, we sneaked through the kitchen--only to find Franco sitting alone, finally eating his dinner after hours of playing caterer to his rowdy crew outside. We thanked him and hugged goodnight and, just before 10:30, before the magic wore off and the car turned back into a pumpkin, we slipped off into the night.