Banff 2009 - 7:40 p.m. - Dear Duder

Tonight you and I had dinner together in the Bow Valley Grill and as my writing skills are far too weak to describe the view of the snow capped peaks and the onset of the long slow summer twilight, I will skip to describing the room briefly. Baronial Scottish is the intent, fairly well executed, but the thing you would like the most I think are the squirrels on the carpet. Yep, vast swaths of green and brown and gold under foot with oak leaves and birds and squirrels. Curiously, no acorns, but hey, maybe it is spring or maybe I need my contact lenses upgraded.

We began our celebration with my signature drink a Fear of Commitment – not poorly executed, but not with nearly the bang-on alchemy demonstrated by the Rumble Lounge Bartender. Llym, not Liam, as  it is the more traditional Gaelic spelling. Alas, it is his night off and the lounge a mere 12 staggering steps from my garret room is closed, so I had to forsake my planned evening of too many martinis and too much flirting for the grown-up restaurant.  Fortunately, you recently posted the short fiction piece “Stir Sticks I” to your blog and thus I was able to enjoy your acerbic wit and insightful commentary on the plight of the modern accounting professional during my otherwise solitary repast.

You may have made a sharp comment at my ordering of the PEI mussel appetizer given the menu note about the local heirloom cherry tomatoes.  Yes, Coco’s crack of vegetables; cherry tomatoes just a few hours from the vine. And yes not only do they trigger my asthma like nothing short of an old hippie in Patchouli and tie-dye, but the addition of the altitude, and the stress of trying to be f***able every second of every public moment means a fair amount of heavy breathing is issuing from me at even a modest walking pace.  In my defence, I am a) celebrating, b) spending the most of the next two days behind the wheel of the car and c) many of the men in my vicinity have mistaken the heavy breathing as sexual excitement prompted by their proximity so it has actually positively contributed to my f***able mystique.

The entrée of a AAA Albert Ribeye (one must after all do, when in Rome…) was a bit forgettable and over buttered.  To be perfectly honest, my butter de maitre d’ hotel is better.  While the “e” in that should have one a them hats, I really can’t be bothered to find the right keyboard or key combo – blame the very fine Mission Hill Merlot. 

No dessert, at least not here, they have a big giant buffet thing and you know my disdain for the buffet.  Crème Brule is the thing I want and not to be had, so I will wander off in search of other adventures, but will definitely find a spot to witness the gloaming. The mountains have shadows on their shoulders so it shouldn't be long.

Thanks for the company and I look forward to seeing you soon.

Lots of those air kissey things you hate so much,

Coco