Unfortunately, we had to *eek!* grab each other by both hands, squeeze, air *kiss kiss* on either cheek, and say "oh, my daaaah-ling amor, adiós, adiós!" to the restaurant called Gozar in West Hollywood several months ago. It was a surprising and rather abrupt, as I had neither heard nor read about Gozar's closing until I simply saw that the sign was gone on a rare but familiar drive up Santa Monica Boulevard toward Hollywood.
Gozar didn't seem to be doing poorly the few times I've eaten/drank/lounged/walked by their perfectly prime location right there on the corner of Santa Monica and Robertson Boulevards. The sidewalk seating was always full of faaaaaabulously styled men giggling over a tableful of untouched tapas, and even more beautiful men serving them cocktails. Perhaps it wasn't necessarily business, but...something else? A lovers' quarrel between the business partners? Slim shady dealings going on behind the kitchen doors? Who knows. I'm too lazy to look it up. Besides, it's much more fun to use my imagination.
So it would be a dreadful waste of creativity, writing energy, a blog post, and cyberspace in general, to write about the totally fruity mango kiwi salsa scooped up with crisp, long, thick plantain chips that were wonderfully appropriate (naughty!) and a delicious way to off-set my Absolut citron/soda as I sat there alone waiting for my playpals. No one will ever be able to pierce the plump, delicately flaky empanadas filled with who-cares-now-we-can't-have-any. What a shame that the fairly decent skirt steak, not good because it was a little overdone, but decent steak of skirt, won't be brought to the table by a luscious cabana boy in a plain white Hanes beefy T. What a shame.
Instead I'll just take the opportunity to talk about how much I love gay men.
I love gay men. Love. I love their blown out, bedhead, sleek chic hair, love their killer style, love their taste in shoes (theirs or mine), love their eeking shrieking over Project Runway. I love them. Sometimes I wish were a gay man so I could actually date a gay man.
Ooooo. K. What a lie.
Even if I were a gay man, I would never date another gay man! Unless he were fatter, shorter, and uglier than me, and we all know that there is no such thing as a short, fat, ugly gay man! I'm such a competitive bratty, selfish, divalicious little princess like that. (If you think you see or know a short, fat, ugly gay man, he is not gay. A gay man would at least work out and be a short, fit ugly gay man.)
So anyway, we had dinner at now-gone Gozar before we were to go to Here and/or there (which is the Abbey) for very very very (don't suck it down with a straw all at once) strong drinks. Whilst we were dining, I noticed that the most beautiful, fruity-licious, creamy dreamy, tropicana girl flaming gay drink on the table was not mine, even though I was the only female. BUT, it was also not the drink of choice of the gay manfriend, who was drinking a gentleman's G&T. No, the marvelous mandarin martini (it asctually had a much gayer name, but I don't remeber what it was) was being sipped by my non-gay, uber-hetero, football *grunt* man sport *grunt* of-Midwest-orientation friend.
Then I stopped. Nothing wrong with drinking a fruity martini, okay?
** a year ago today, the secret code word was "nanbankan" **