A few years ago, while we were still living together, Pita and I passed by a restaurant called Social that was along the market. We looked in at the elegant, minimal atmosphere, the nicely dressed people, and the intricate dishes that were being served to them. Looking at the menu posted outside, and noting the lack of decimals in the pricing (everything was in flat dollars), it was mutually agreed that going there to dine without a reason to celebrate was out of our budget. Just walking inside was something that we would have to earn, and we made an agreement. For the term, if I could manage all As (anything from an A- to an A+, or a GPA of over 8.0) and if he could win his next competition (for both standard and Latin ballroom dancing) than we would walk in one day and order anything we wanted.

The term came and passed, and in the end I only managed a bunch of measly grades, while he got bronze at the competition. We never spoke of it again.

Until this week. After traveling abroad for more than a year and working in his native country, Pita came back to Canada to settle down. He decided to live the rest of his life in Montreal, but he was able to visit for the weekend. We agreed on lunch at Social, not needing any justification between each other. After all, we graduated, found jobs, started to settle down. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year.

He had the duck, I had the lamb. Both were unbelievably succulent, tender, and came with fresh salads in a light dressing, along with super-thin fries. Even though we weren’t dressed as well as what some would call the “regular” patrons, we were served well and with respect, something can’t be said about all the restaurants I’ve been to. To be honest, I’ve never been given a choice of water (regular, mineral, soda, or sparkling, the man told us). I paid this time, and Pita agreed to treat me when I visit him in Montreal.

The half ounce. Financed by one, shared by many.

In ten minutes, the redness of the sky and the morning fog are gone. The day resumes.

Sometimes, living just means being at the right place at the right time.

Nala has been coming into my room when Loo is here. I think she trusts girls more and might even go so far as to be curious about them, possibly because it was Kate who adopted her. For the first time this morning she accepted food from me. It was a Whiskas Beef Temptations.

If wine were a liquor, it would taste like sake. The statement doesn’t really make sense until one actually tries a cup of the warm liquid, and I have to admit, I didn’t believe Louise when she first said it.

Pat, Aaron, Trolley, and I, along with the respective girls/girlfriends, Jen, Karen, Andrea, and Loo, went to the Japanese Village for some celebratory teppanyaki. Pat found a new full-time development job, Trolley went from contract to full-time, and Aaron got an eight-month quality assurance contract, all within the same month. Everyone managed to make it out on the same night, which is not an easy task among the eight in attendance.

The last time we met together like this was when I first got my job at the beginning of spring, when we went to a little restaurant in Chinatown to celebrate, sort of like the meeting of the heads of the four territories in Infernal Affairs 2. It was important that my three closest friends in the city could make it last time, and this time, it just so happened that each one of them got new jobs.

Every main meal comes in six to seven courses with mushroom soup, salad (consumed using chopsticks), shrimp appetizers, mixed vegetables, rice, and sprouts. I got the filet mignon, which is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted; tender enough to stick through with a chopstick, but firm enough not to fall off. It’s so good, that I may sacrifice the excitement of trying something new the next time I go, for the savoury taste of their best cut beef.

Something that I desperately want to do again, but difficult enough to accomplish with everyone there, to make me appreciate the time when it comes.