My birthday dinner at Canlis

Well then.  If you’re privy to the members only posts, you can read about my graduation dinner at Canlis, and how amazing that was for me and my friend who treated me. I drank a lot more and kissed more people than I did this time. I’ve been one time since then, but in that instance, what happened at Canlis stayed at Canlis. Mostly. :)

This time, I went by myself – armed to the teeth with a birthday gift card from Chris, and a $100 bill that some very generous fans left for me after my last night at pink door.

I figured $180 would cover my bill and I’d be able to eat whatever I wanted without having to worry about it. Plus, I resolved to have one cocktail with my first course since I was riding in the wind/rain home, which would help too. I was wrong.

The evening started off well enough. I showed up soaking wet on my scooter and got a chuckle out of the valet, who let me know that the same place I parked last time was still acceptable. I was seated immediately at Peter Canlis’ table, where you can see most of the restaurant. I people watched for a while, then brought out my dictionary to work on a personal project.

I ordered what I wanted (seared foie gras, the beet salad, and the lamb chops) and successfully freaked out Brian by calling him by name before he made it all the way to my table to say hello. We talked and he mentioned finding me familiar, because I’d met him about 6 months ago or so dining with friends. (Hm, in writing this, it’s occurring to me how lucky I am to have been to this place as often as I have.) I asked him, quite seriously, why he hasn’t hired me to hang from his ceiling yet. I don’t want to jinx anything by saying much about it, but in time, we’ll see what things that might set in motion.

Just before my main course arrived, I noticed a girl at the table in front of me nursing her back. I had decided, when I made my reservations for one today, that I would go with my instinct as far as engaging with other people at the restaurant. I headed over and excused myself for prying, and let her know I was a massage therapist and asked her what was up.

Turns out she’s a soccer player and is apparently as good about warming up as I am (I’ve got a bum left shoulder right now that’s really pissing me off). I worked on her a bit and small talked with the people at her table, told her about contrast therapy and the importance of warming up before playing soccer and excused myself to my meal that was just arriving – not before most of them insisted on having my card.

After dessert (sorbet trio), Brian had stopped back by to check in. I mentioned he had some hot looking boys in the kitchen and boom, I was offered a tour. I got to see the private dining areas, the wine room, the executive dining room for like meetings and stuff, the kitchen and the cool brushed copper grill area. Awesome. It’s actually bigger than I thought it would be. I felt special – even if they do do a few tours a week.

When I came back, my check was on the table, or so I thought. I’d just settled in when my server arrived to tell me that the table behind I’d talked with had taken care of my dinner. I stared blankly. I asked her to repeat herself. I stared blankly again. I pointed.

“You mean that table?” Said I, pointing to the soccer girls table perhaps 4 feet from mine like it was from another universe.
‘Yes, the man with no hair and the suit told me’
“You’re shitting me.”
‘Heh. No.’

I stared blankly again. Then I got up and approached the man she’d pointed out and said “I think my server just played a trick on me.”. Nope. John and Nancy had bought me my dinner, like glorious little ninjas, while I was off getting my tour. As it turned out, there were 4 birthdays at that table of 7, all celebrating at the same time, and they wanted to include me. Effin Scorpios man, so dramatic. Dramatically AWESOME.

Can I get a holy shit? I told them they’d just made my year. They assured me I would be seeing them again, because they have my massage card.

On my way out, Jackson, the master of imbibement, was holding my best trenchcoat and scarves open in front of the fire to warm them up. To give you an idea of what fraction of my rent a meal at this place costs, said trenchcoat is nearly 9 years old with a liner that is held together precariously by hot pink duct tape. It’s also missing a button, and has never once been cleaned cause it’s dry clean only. I chuckled with a kind of serene amusement.

Sometimes, I think I must be the most charmed sonofabitch on the planet.

I looked fucking hot, too. For a 30 year old. :D