My darling and well connected roommate took me to a private party at Tosca last night. Apparently, 2 people she works with were leaving their jobs and their boss, THE grande dame of San Francisco society, threw them a going away shindig to rival any party I’ve ever been to. It was fabulous, packed with gorgeous people and San Francisco’s elite. As Zoe and I sat at the bar with our new friend, Debra the publicist, through the doors come the Green Street Mortuary band, with horns and drums and everything. It was amazing and quite impressive. Zoe knew anyone who was anyone, from the head of City Hall’s security to supervisors and national political icons. (think former Secretary of States and the like…)
In an attempt to wrangle a bartender over to our section, Zoe winks at one of them, who promptly runs over to us and refills our glasses.
“You keep winking at me like that, you can have all the Chardonnay in town.”
Zoe and I are delighted and shocked, as we now (and by we, I mean Zoe) have the undivided attention of the bartender for the remainder of the evening. He’d constantly refill her glass, and Zoe would have to lean over, re-wink and say, “Uh, could my friend get another vodka tonic, lots of lime?”
We mingle and schmooze, rubbing elbows with people I’ve only read about. The only downside was that my future spouse was apparently otherwise engaged, probably still at work toiling over hobos and litter.
As we left Tosca, delighted with our evening, Zoe grabs the bartender’s hand and says goodbye.
“What’s your name?”
“Well, I’m Chief. (I swear to God.) I really hope to see you again.”
Chief? Are you kidding me? His name is Chief.
The next time you’re at Tosca, drop Zoe’s name. You’ll be well taken care of…