It breaks my heart that St. Valentine wasn’t executed in a warmer month than February so Valentine’s Day could be celebrated with a street party instead of intimate candlelit dinners for two. San Francisco’s now annual version of the international Love Parade gushes down Market Street at the end of September, on the same weekend as my sweetheart’s birthday.
The Love Parade begins at the brunch hour and thumps and grinds into dusk. For the last two years by the time Eric and I ascended from BART at Powell Street, making our way to a Broadway show or fancy restaurant near Union Square, all we have witnessed are Love Parade leftovers. This is somewhat fitting as the Love Parade caters to people in their late teens and early 20s. That is about the same age group as Romeo and Juliet whose love was impetuous, passionate, plagued by miscommunication and ultimately fatal.
Love Parade celebrants are more likely to die from skin exposure or broken eardrums than from hearts stabbed and poisoned by either love or rejection. Electronic dance music blared from colorfully decorated truck beds masquerading as parade floats. Groups of young women flitted through the tourist mob clad scantily in shiny gold hot pants, tutus, sandals, tie-dye or lamé blouses and tank tops. On their backs were homemade fairy wings. They were high spirited and giggly.
I think celebrating love and peace is a brilliant reason for a parade. It rekindles and re-imagines the Human Be-Ins in the 1960’s that freed men, and especially women, to love the one you’re with, in this moment, and also the one in the next. There is practically nothing more magical than hooking up with a stranger picked out of a crowd, knowing absolutely nothing about them, maybe not even their name. It is all eye contact—instant adoration of souls—and smiles. The first gentle kiss and the first caress blossom amidst the safety of a like-minded throng. Speed soul-mating. This street-cart love is intense and immediately satisfying but can hardly be called a meal.
This past year Eric turned 55 and expressed that he was having difficulty with this milestone, more so than age 50. He felt his youth was getting farther away from his present. In other words, he was finally starting to feel old. Brushing past partying young things in the street doesn’t help.
I hadn’t told him where we were going for this birthday dinner which is traditionally a surprise, one simple way of keeping some mystery in the relationship. We weaved our way around the self-made cupids and other people on the crowded streets surrounding Union Square. It was cold and windy so I led Eric on a zig-zagging route towards our destination to avoid the wind. He ventured a few guesses whenever we turned a corner. “Remember Rue Lapin?” he said, fishing for a clue. “Yes, that’s the first place I ever took you for your birthday. Is it right up here on this street?”
Then he saw a yellow awning with a single decoration but no name. “Is that Fleur de Lys?”
“I guess it is. I forgot that it was right around here.”
As we walked past, I said, “Let’s see if they have a table.” And I led him in dumbstruck to claim our reservation. We had been there once before for my 40th birthday. Having cheered on Chef Hubert Keller on “Top Chef Masters,” I thought it might give Eric a special thrill to celebrate his birthday Fleur-de-Lys style.
Once we had given our coats to the charming hostesses and taken our seats, I excused myself to go to the restroom and wash the swine flu germs from BART off of my hands. As I did so and straightened my windblown hair, I thought that what struck me about the revelers and about young people in general is that they carry magic with them.
For example, when Eric and I visited Venice three years ago for our 10th anniversary, there was a young American gay couple staying in our bed-and-breakfast who we encountered uneventfully in the breakfast room. The men were cute with black hair, were sensibly well-dressed, and neither too effeminate nor overly masculine. Thoroughly embraceable by all. They indeed carried magic with them, and while they were aware of it, they possessed it like a prized Gucci travel pouch. We saw them around Venice in piazzas and at the Guggenheim being wonderful and curious, oblivious of us except as spectators.
I once traveled with self-contained purpose and interest. At age 21 I criss-crossed the entirety of Venice several times on foot in three days by myself, ignoring the tourists, adventurously finding my own way, my own magical discoveries. Looking back, I see myself as having been more closed off then self-contained. As exemplified by Glinda the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, magic is easier to sustain while living in a bubble.
Back at our table, the young waiters served up a succession of artful food creations. A light musky lemony fava bean puree, scooped up with a tiny silver spoon. A small interlocking stack of perfectly cut French fry timbers that breathed truffle oil vapor when you bit them. My entrée was a row of sliced Muscovy duck breast, each slice topped with a juicy, naked orange segment. It was surrounded on the plate with wedges of roasted sweet potato here, a smooth puff of mashed potatoes there.
Eric was silently entranced by his entrée. He awakened to me and said, “You have to try some filet.” I discreetly slid my bread plate to him; it returned momentarily with a good bit of dark brown juicy beef. Perched on top were a thin slice of truffle and a matching sliver of seared foie gras. I carefully cut off a morsel of each and tasted them separately—each was delicious and cooked perfectly. But when I cut off a morsel of each and grouped them together on my fork, the flavors together were amazing and startling. We finished our entrees reverently with quiet conversation and contentment.
After our entrée plates had been cleared and we were alone again, I looked across the table at Eric. His head was bowed and he looked sad. “Are you okay?” I asked. He looked up and made intimate eye contact.
“You made me cry. This dinner, this amazing place. Thank you, it’s wonderful.”
Tears welled up now in my eyes. “You’re welcome. I wanted it to be special for your 55th.”
“It is.”
We smiled at one another, eyes moist, faces warm with wine and the emotions of the moment. Our table seemed enveloped in a protective glow, a sacred spot around which the waiters, other diners, and the restaurant circled jubilantly. We were happy, and together we were suspended by the love and caring that we brought to the table, even at our age, especially at our age.
Suddenly from around the corner, two waiters brought out breathtaking plates of dessert, including a candle-lit chocolate mousse for Eric. Our glistening eyes slowly cleared to take in the sugary perfections. The rollercoaster of tastes continued for several more minutes than it should have, but we held on to the end, screaming quietly and joyfully with every bite.
The bill was very special too but no tears were shed. True romantics that we are, Eric put his birthday dinner on his Visa card, because it has a lower interest rate than mine.
that is such a sweet story.
Comment by Julie Ray — February 17, 2010 @ 7:31 pm |