Happiness is Valeting the Bustache

This Valentine’s Day I found love, happiness and salvation.

This is what happened.

Last week, I wrote this post.

Two days later, I called my mom, and she said the post made her sad. After all the years she spent making me (and her other children) feel special on February 14 and instilling the importance of expressing our love… She hoped Steve and I would do SOMETHING for Valentine’s Day. Oh, and my Valentine’s Day Box was in the mail.

Five minutes later, I felt guilty (there is no more effective guilt than mom induced guilt).

One hour later, Steve and I made reservations at a fancy restaurant for February 15th. Love expressed.

Last night, we dressed-up all snazzy and climbed into Bustache. We drove down the PCH (in the rain!) and ended up at one of Orange County’s most famous restaurants, Mastro’s. Because we were driving a VW Bus in the rain, we were 10 minutes late. Because we were driving a VW Bus in the rain and were 10 minutes late, we splurged for valet. Happiness is watching Bustache be valeted. Trust me.

(Mental image – Bustache pulling up to the Valet. The Valet politely trying to open my door. Me shaking me head through the window at him. Opening the door for myself explaining, “You can’t open the passenger door from the outside.” Then Steve chiming in, “And you can’t open the drivers side door from the outside if it’s locked.” And then me offering, “Yes. The only door you can unlock and open from the outside is the sliding one.” 17-year-old valet guy looks worried. Off we go.)

We went inside and proceeded to eat the best steak we’ve ever had. Ever. (Even though it probably cost more than it would have to buy our own cattle ranch, birth some calves, raise them, feed them, slaughter them, prepare them, and cook them.)

We also ate lobster garlic mashed potatoes. (Yes, you read that right. They take a WHOLE lobster, and carefully mix it in with the garlic mashed-potatoes.)

And then, we ordered the BUTTER CAKE. Folks, this happened in California. Southern California. Where we (call each other “Folks”) and eat desserts like “Flax-seed crisps served with Elderflower gelato and a wheat-grass garnish” while trying to convince ourselves that doesn’t taste like dirt. “How earthy,” we say. “The flavors are just so clean!”

I am sorry Californians, but we have been lying to ourselves. BUTTER & SUGAR ARE THE ONLY WAY TO PRODUCE A TRUE DESSERT. I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT, AND I’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO GO BACK. I SOLD MY SOUL TO THE BUTTER CAKE. BUTTER CAKE = HEAVEN. BUTTER CAKE = SALVATION.

Thank goodness for Mom guilt.