The Croupier isn’t the only one that turned thirty this month, Gatz rounded the corner into my decade as well (now if The Husband could hurry up and turn thirty too, maybe I won’t feel so weird). Whereas The Croupier was content with a big party in The LPV, Gatz had dreams of traveling abroad to celebrate and naturally wanted The Husband to go with him, and then he even decided that he wanted me to go too (I don’t think the term ‘third wheel’ means much here in France).
First there was talks of Malta, and Palma, and then Madrid, and then maybe even a short Mediterranean cruise (although it’s kind of blasé when Marseille is one of the ports that the cruise stops along) but I had to constantly remind The Husband that he also turns thirty in a few months and does he really want to blow his birthday budget going away for Gatz’s birthday, and why couldn’t they just do a joint celebration halfway in between (because that would make too much sense, that’s why).
Then somehow the months of travel talk seem to go poof into thin air, and The Husband felt bad and asked Gatz if he wanted to go to Barcelona for the weekend just the two of them (oh so romantic) but Gatz said no, he didn’t feel like celebrating, but I wasn’t having any of that, so last Friday, on his birthday, I phoned him up and told him that we were all going out to dinner and he just needed to name the place. And you know where he picked? The wine bar (Boohoo for me right? Wrong. That place is like my Disneyland).
And that’s the story of how we went to the bar au vin for the greatest birthday dinner of all time (at least the greatest birthday dinner of Gatz’s time anyway).
We got the evening started with a bottle of Ruinart Brut Rosé.
Ruinart Brut Rosé makes me feel like je suis aux anges.
(once an apple polisher,
always an apple polisher)