Seventeen sneezes (delayed reaction to the wine) and one Russian cabbie later, who was perplexed as to why the monster got in a separate cab - he lives in North Beach and I live in the Haight, and incensed that he did not buy my dinner, even though I felt I was fairly succinct in explaining that we are only friends... But that is not my point and it didn't do anything to dampen the euphoria of an evening of baccanalia, an evening of living way large and drinking great wines out of my stratosphere.

makes me want to put on my dancing shoes.

We had the chef's table at Quince and it was by far the best meal I have had in ages. I mean like glorious, glorious that after all the gorgeous food and wine I am sitting here wide awake past my bed time and not overstuffed, just giddy. And fuck me if it doesn't feel righteous. You know what is righteous -- sweet breads, also angoletti. I could die and done gone straight to the pearly fields of barley in a bowl of angoletti.

What is it about the perfect vortex of food, wine, excellent service and fabulous peers that fills you with such vitality, when by rights I should be sagging in the bed clothes and yet I am redolent of rosemary and barbera and the only thing missing is a nice warm body between my sheets, a touch of musk and a canvas of skin would just about make me complete and how I would laugh and go languid.

Still I tap my happiness onto my pliant keyboard, it's a poor and small square substitute for the body of a good man, but it will do for tonight. I feel good and alive tonight, I think it's the red lipstick, I should wear it more often, it suits me. Ah sweet, sweet food heroin, feels a lot like new romance. Tomorrow I will do my penance at the gym, but for now I am prolonging the sweet swell of sleep, to savor this a bit, before my eyelids droop and I can't dance, I'll only lurch -- that moment is nearly nigh, still I fight it.... I am not ready to surrender quite yet.