Isabel celebrated her birthday on Friday with a flourless chocolate cake, chickpea pancakes, pork tenderloin stuffed with bacon, crab croquettes and other little plates of delight from Cobras & Matadors' kitchen. There was also lots of discussion about sex -- and posing for suggestive pictures involving churros -- at the table among Isabel's randy friends. I was the prudish one who kept telling the others, "TMI: too much information!" I talked more about sex tonight with my five dinnermates than I had in a year with my other pals. Scott, the uninhibited Floridian who lassoed our blond waitress into the raunchy tales with a question about the name of a certain sexual act, assumed the position of matador -- until the check arrived. The server bypassed him to take instructions from me on how to split the bill. "I'm the matador!" the baby-face Scott said to the waitress. "She's the cobra!" the waitress retorted, pointing to me. Ssssss!
After dinner, and some suburban debauchery, I crashed at Isabel's house. On the way back to my place the next morning, we stopped at Yuca's, my neighborhood taco stand that won a James Beard award for its cochinita pibil, or Yucatan-style baked marinated pork, stuffed in tamales, taco, tortas and burritos. Isabel ran into one of her co-workers who was picking up brunch for her rambunctious four-year-old son and hungover hubbie. The little boy liked my purple boots. "Cowboy girl," he called me. Once we learned that he and I share the same birthday in November, we gave each other high-fives and called each other birthday buddies. Scorpios rule!
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