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[Warning: This blog entry contains food and drink descriptions that may cause severe hunger pangs and/or uncontrollable urges to make a lamb jus.]

When is the right time to break out the sweatpants? It might not have been the sexiest question ever posed in Lumiere (www.lumiere.ca) lounge over an amuse bouche, but it’s a legitimate one.

 Left: Crystal C. enjoying an amuse bouche with Wingy.

We’d been talking, Wingman, real estate agent Crystal C. and myself, about relaxing at home and what we like to wear. Would you believe Wingy doesn’t even own a pair of sweats? He said something about boxer shorts but by then I wasn’t even listening as he’d (again) lost all credibility. Crystal said she liked yoga-wear but that she did have a pair of sweatpants she liked to wear around the house. I wondered when, if ever, it was permissible to parade your most comfortable (and therefore unsexiest) clothes in front of someone you might have even a vague interest in. Crystal said she would unashamedly wear her sweats in front of a guy she was seeing after three weeks, “if we were just doing something comfortable.” I said I’d never worn sweats around the last girl I dated, not in our whole year of going out. But then, as soon as I said this, I thought, “Uh-oh, is that true?” It could have been one of those wishful-thinking, after-the-fact statements… anyway, just because Crystal can get away with something doesn’t mean I can, since she looks like Lindsay Lohan and I do not.

  Left: Mixologist, moi

This discussion took place over a classic martini and a spot prawn tortellini with squid linguini and sauce vierge (I have the recipe in front of me but I don’t think I’ll be making it any time soon unless the Queen, or perhaps Italian actress Asia Argento, drop by) before a dinner presented by the folks at Bombay Sapphire. You know the stuff, it looks innocent enough in its baby blue bottle, but then you have three martinis of it and you’re seeing pink elephants. But it’s actually got rather a sophisticated palette of flavours, including those of no fewer than 10 “botanicals”—for instance, coriander, almonds, lemon peel (from Spain, no less), and grains of paradise. Read the side of the bottle if you don’t believe me.

Anyway, the idea behind this evening was cocktails made with Bombay Sapphire paired with specially prepared dishes. Lumiere is one of the city’s  most celebrated establishments, and chef Dale McKay did not disappoint, nor did Bombay mixologist Merlin. In order, we had: a Ginger Snap (fresh mandarin juice and ginger syrup in a tall glass, a perfect summer time drink) paired with a Qualicum Bay scallop with raisin puree, roast pear and micro coriander; a Mistletoe Martini (rather sweet, but redeemed by a mint garnish) along with braised veal cheek and cranberry tuille; and the Chalet, made with cranberry and apple juice and fresh lemon, teamed with pressed Berkshire pork belly with caramelized apples, turnips and Savoy cabbage. A main course of loin of lamb with lightly spiced choucroute, golden raisins, carrot and cauliflower purees, okra and lamb juice followed. Suffice it to say, by this time my taste buds were doing backflips–it was like a little Cirque du soleil in my cakehole. However, I am a merciful blogging god, so I won’t bore you with the salacious details of the dessert.

Speaking of pairings, however, it was my fortune to be seated at what my good friend Mary would so poetically have referred to as “the NAFF” table. That is, “Not Available For—” uhm, sex. On my right were two Claudias, one from print and the other radio, while across from me sat Lisa, with the Bombay Sapphire Toronto office. Lovely ladies all, perhaps, but all bearing the Ring of Doom. Across the table on my left was Sarah, a friend, while on my immediate left was Andrew Carney,  global PR director for Bombay Sapphire, from London. Actually, he was the one who laughed most at my jokes, but being male not really my type. Although he did have a cute accent.

Meanwhile, from my position I had a clear view of Wing-y. Naturally, he was having the time of his life, yucking it up with those all around him and occasionally shooting me grins of self-satisfaction as he promised tickets to the Spice Girls concert to all the girls at his table who, it seemed, were mostly of the single variety, and probably didn’t own a pair of sweat pants, either.

Next: will Wingy and I get backstage to meet Ginger, Posh and, er, the other ones? More importantly, will I get a date? Check in Monday, Dec. 3, for one of the first reviews of the Spice Girls’ reunion tour kick-off concert. Zig-a-zig-ah!

Sometimes I feel bad about how it went down. Maybe I could’ve been more communicative, a little more gentle. But when something’s over it’s over, and nothing you say or do is going to lessen the hurt. And so I had to let my wingman go.

This was about six months ago. The writing had been on the wall. Our phone conversations were shorter. Plans never got made or, if they did, one of us broke them. We kept in touch, calling once in awhile to see what the other was up to. But we both knew it was over, and that we had to move on—he to a new phase of nights on the couch watching forensic crime dramas, and myself to a more manipulate-able wingman. But you can’t escape your past, and I knew there would come a reckoning.

That day came last Wednesday. With my current wingman out of commission for the first part of the night, I called my former sidekick. His girlfriend had recently moved in, so I wasn’t expecting him to say “yes” to an evening out on such short notice. “Sure,” he said. “But I’ve just made a cheesecake. From scratch. It’s in the oven right now, so I won’t be able to leave for an hour.”  

This was fine with me, since he wasn’t the only one with kitchen duties to perform. And so, after taking the frozen pizza out of its box and micro-waving it, I readied myself. My former wingman arrived on time and, once in his car, I began outlining the night’s itinerary. It was starting to seem like old times when his phone rang.  

“Just a second. Hi there. Yes. No. There are chicken potpies on the counter. Help yourself. But don’t eat the cheesecake. I still have to make a topping, maybe caramel, for it.” Did I mention his new girlfriend had moved in? 

I was happy to finally land at Liberty. The Vancouver furniture emporium was throwing a party to showcase the paintings and sculptures of four local artists. The pieces were impressive but competed for our attention with a martini bar, a room full of the city’s hobnobbing glitterati, and the work of a bodypainter. This skilled individual had the advantage of having his (or her) work displayed on the nude bodies of three models made over to look like marble statues.  

Despite the long hours he now kept in his kitchen, Wingman # 1’s social skills apparently hadn’t turned rusty. As wingmen go he was always able to hold his own, and this latest occasion was no exception as we chatted our way through the soiree. We were about to leave when my phone went off.  

“Hey, I just had my car towed and there’s a lineup of people here at the yard, waiting to get their cars,” said Wingman #2, who’d been attending a soccer game. “Can you come and get me and I’ll get it later?” 

I hesitated—it wasn’t my car, after all. But we were already planning on heading downtown, so grabbing him on the way wasn’t too big of a hassle.  Or so I thought. But, a little while later, the three of us were at a nightclub. Wingman #1 turned to me. “I see,” he said. “So you only called me because he couldn’t go, and you were going to get together with him later anyway.” 

“It wasn’t like that,” I said lamely.  It wasn’t, not exactly—I would have been fine with staying in if Wingman #1 had said, for instance, that he had a whole evening of cake-baking ahead of him. But he hadn’t, and so now here the three of us were… 

Indeed, all would have been fine. Except that, as we were leaving our last destination—a rock ’n’ roll bar on the city’s impoverished Lower Eastside–#2 asked for a ride back downtown to the tow lot.  Wingman #1 tensed up. I could tell he hadn’t been entirely pleased by the situation, but he’d been civil up to this point. Now he was being asked to inconvenience himself further by giving a ride to his replacement in the opposite direction from which we were headed. Of course, he did it—that’s just the kind of guy he is–but I could tell by the grunts and heavy sighs that came from the driver’s seat following this errand that he wasn’t pleased.  

Oh well, I thought. He still had his cheesecake waiting.