anniversary dinner

There are few things I love more than a night out alone with my husband.
It was our anniversary and we were going to dinner.....alone.
Bacho was in a buttoned down shirt and slacks and I was wearing lipstick and heels.
It was the first time that week that I was wearing a spit-up-free shirt.
We drove down U.S. 60 headed west.
Bacho asked me if I knew where we were going.
I told him, no. But it really didn't matter as long as two certain somebodys weren't in the backseat coming along with us and as long as we weren't going to a chain restaurant (that really kills the creativity for me.) I'd rather go to a little hole in the wall on the wrong side of town that we love than go to a chain restaurant on our anniversary.

(Dear Bacho,
it's OK that we went to Carrabbas last year.
Really it is.)

We arrived.
We held hands across the parking lot and through the lobby.
We walked into a dimmed restaurant with little votive lights and linens on the tables.
We were seated and then greeted by our very soft-spoken, but best-ever waiter (who was given a generous tip for being so good because we believe in tipping good service when you get it. It's hard to come by these days.)

The dinner continued with a hot, lemon towelette to wash our hands with. A delicious amuse bouche,
an appetizer of crispy duck with pomegranate sauce, a little ball of lemon sorbet on a spoon to cleanse our paletes before the meal, Bacho's potato wrapped salmon, my blue cheese crusted steak, two little truffles on silver picks sent from the chef

and
a to-die-for dessert of raspberry creme brulee with HAPPY ANNIVERSARY written in dark chocolate around the plate.

I loved my dinner.
I loved my dinner with Bacho.

And I love anniversaries so we can go out to dinner wearing heals and lipstick with no children and get little balls of
lemon sorbet on a spoon.