We’ve been having a considerable amount of fun lately, but tonight was particularly good. The Moores took Claire for another sleepover, just because they’re insanely fabulous and we totally don’t deserve them. So Jeremy dusted off the blue silk shirt and I got out my $10 Thrift Town Jessica McClintock black gown, the one with the diamante straps, and my knee-high black vinyl fuck-me boots, and we headed to what’s supposed to be the nicest French restaurant in town.

It’s pretty nice, actually. The amuse-bouche was almost the best thing: a pickled oyster on a bed of leeks, and a chunk of some kind of sushi over an insanely delicate and delicious lime gelee. I had a Dungeness crab napoleon with crisp pineapple rings, served on an apple gelee. Jeremy had frog’s legs.

I sang “Why are there so many songs about rainbows?”

“I hate to say it,” he said, “but it tastes like chicken.”

I had a quail and squab roti, so rich I couldn’t finish it.

“We could squabble over it,” he suggested, but I quailed at the thought.

He had duck confit in a ginger sauce. The sorbet was champagne and vanilla. For dessert he went with the cappucino creme brulee and I had a coconut tapioca with mango and passionfruit gelato and basil oil. The petits-fours were wonderful, especially a little sponge cake with a cherry, a hazelnut ganache topped with gold foil and a sensational peach jelly.

In short, I really liked the jellies. It was a bit like visiting Monterey Bay Aquarium, only edible.

I called to make sure Claire was doing okay. She’d eaten the Moores out of house and home, and she and Rowan had their leche caliente and were settling down for stories and bed-time.

Oh, and the boots worked.

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