"Which one of you is getting the surprise birthday cake?" - 1/27/2016

Ya know, six months ago, my Better Half gave me the option of a party or a tropical vacation to bring in 60. I opted for the latter, and it is one of the best decisions I've ever made.  First of all, thank you "Jam" for THE BEST birthday celebration I ever had! And to my FB friends and family, your birthday love has made me dislike the month of January a little less.  From the generic greeting to blog comments, I feel like a had a party after all and you were all in attendance.  And when I win the lotto, you're all coming with me next time so the experience can be more than vicarious. We strolled under the starlit sky, listening to the waves crashing against the surf, and I'm telling you, that would have made me happy even if I was walking to a dinner of canned beans and ham.We arrive at the beautiful specialty restaurant and the hostess asks:  "Which one of you is getting the surprise birthday cake?" C'mon..how could you not love miscommunication like that? Not to mention Jim's thoughtful gesture and  an A for effort. We are served something that looked like a ball of fried dough.  I take a bite and can't identify what it is. Jim suggests it's bland, that we have to use the sauce that accompanied it, in a packet with a lemon on the label. So I go first, and pour the liquid contents of a lemon-scented moistened towelette all over the mystery dough.   In case you haven't  already guessed, I am a burger and fries(pomp fritte??) type of gal, and people like us should never be given moistened towelettes, lemon-scented or otherwise. We get the next course..pate with pumpkin bread.  And champagne. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams are not dreams but weird nightmares for those of us who've eaten at Wendy's. Oh!! And then there was a basket of croissants. They were wonderful, but neither of us remembered the french word for "butter" so I point to the bread and rub the back of my hand.  She comes back with hand cream. The main course comes next, Beef Rossini, a steak made for the gods with something we couldn't identify on top. Jim thought it was some kind of mushroom, and I volunteer to be the guinea pig. It tasted like a hard boiled egg, if hard boiled eggs brought on the best foodgasm of one's life. Jim agrees that it is indeed wonderful, and then guesses it's probably not an egg from a chicken. I am relieved that porcupines don't lay eggs(right?? they don't, right?) and I dig in..whatever it was, it had life-sustaining qualities. I'm attacking it like it's Cotton Candy Ice Cream. Finally, the hand cream lady sends over someone who speaks a little English and couldn't understand my egg question or my tastebuds at all.  She tells me I am eating "fois gras" and 'though I never had it before, I am doubling the size of my meth lab as soon as I get back to NJ so I can score some more of this fois gras.  Stay tuned for Part Two of my glorious night..