At the start of the evening, as I sat captivated by the Menlo Park Venture Capitalist scene wending its way through the "living room" of Madera and onto its massive and crowded patio, I could not have guessed that by the end of the night I would be sharing beignets and dreams with strangers. In Menlo Park, I slammed my wine as quickly as I could as I stared at a woman looking as uncomfortable as I felt and tried, unsuccessfully, to carry on a conversation unrelated to work with some co-worker friends.
One of our group of three had a date so, we shoved delicious pesto-slathered sliders in our gobs and exited to the sun-drenched, hill-surrounded parking lot filled with BMW's, Mercedes, Jaguars and a Maserati. Not wanting to just go home, the evening progressed to a two-single-lady affair and we agreed to meet for dinner back in San Francisco, our native land.
We, being somewhat fashion-minded and hip to the foodie scene, opted for a communal table at Beast and the Hare in the Mission. My friend is an outgoing sort so we made fast friends with a Ryan Reynolds look-alike and his tattooed comrade. Soon, I was dipping my feta cheese covered fork into his corn pancake and we were scooping our whiskey chicken liver pate onto sliced toast for he and his friend to taste (it was delicious).
After their departure, we shared stories of our day jobs with a new middle-aged Irish friend and her Scottish SFPD husband. The mother of at least two told us of her love of gay men and her dreams of becoming a nanny caring for disadvantaged families with children in the hospital. As she shared the last of her beignets with us, we laughed, the tinkle of silverware on plates crowded around us, and the cars sped by outside on Guerrero. As my friend and I parted ways shortly thereafter, she aptly called out, "Good Friday night!"
One of our group of three had a date so, we shoved delicious pesto-slathered sliders in our gobs and exited to the sun-drenched, hill-surrounded parking lot filled with BMW's, Mercedes, Jaguars and a Maserati. Not wanting to just go home, the evening progressed to a two-single-lady affair and we agreed to meet for dinner back in San Francisco, our native land.
We, being somewhat fashion-minded and hip to the foodie scene, opted for a communal table at Beast and the Hare in the Mission. My friend is an outgoing sort so we made fast friends with a Ryan Reynolds look-alike and his tattooed comrade. Soon, I was dipping my feta cheese covered fork into his corn pancake and we were scooping our whiskey chicken liver pate onto sliced toast for he and his friend to taste (it was delicious).
After their departure, we shared stories of our day jobs with a new middle-aged Irish friend and her Scottish SFPD husband. The mother of at least two told us of her love of gay men and her dreams of becoming a nanny caring for disadvantaged families with children in the hospital. As she shared the last of her beignets with us, we laughed, the tinkle of silverware on plates crowded around us, and the cars sped by outside on Guerrero. As my friend and I parted ways shortly thereafter, she aptly called out, "Good Friday night!"
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