Can't Buy Me Love... But Food is a Good Start.

Sunday March 9/2014

Sunday March 2nd. The 86th annual Academy Awards. Also known as the Oscars. Also known as one of the most important days of the year. And in this particular case, also also known as the premier of Wes Anderson's latest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel at the Clapham Picture house (Dan's cinema).  And what an enchanted night it was. Now because the Oscars are live, us lucky folk over here in the UK have to wait until 1:30am for the magic to begin, which actually timed perfectly with our attendance to said Wes Anderson premier. This theatre goes all out when it comes to previews of this stature. The place was decorated top to bottom to resemble the hotel, as were the staff  (George in particular). Instead of movie tickets, you received room keys from the "receptionist". Free whiskey gingers were served upon entering and each seat had a tiny box of "Mendl's chocolates" awaiting you (none of this will make sense if you haven't seen the film. I suggest you go do it, now). Christie and I were dressed in our finest vintage attire. Let it be said, during my incredibly stressful packing experience, I somehow thought it absolutely necessary to pack my vintage 1920's red and white dress, yet completely unnecessary to pack more than two pairs of pants. Well, my sense of logic has just been warranted. An amazing film, it was. Wes never disappoints. But the fun was only just beginning. Dan had planned an Oscar party (another reason I can't help but love this man). Ferrero Roche, espresso martinis, wine, dips and chips, strawberries and chocolate mousse, and my high hopes that Leonardo DiCaprio would finally go home with a naked little gold man (this hope comes in close second to one that includes him bringing home a naked little me). Alas, my dreams were shattered (on both accounts), but the incredible company and overall amazing night, definitely eased the blow. It was 5:00am when 12 Years a Slave accepted best film, and those that weren't already passed out, were drunk enough that they should have been. Christie and I crawled our way into bed with just enough time to shut our eyes before the sun came up. Undoubtably, but not surprisingly, the best Oscar night I've ever experienced.

Needless to say, Monday was a complete right off. I'm not even confident I left the comforts of my bed, except perhaps to satisfy my peanut butter cravings here and there. 

But then came Tuesday. Tuesday being the day I decided to take a ballet class. Pineapple Studios in Covent Garden,  London's most famous drop in dance centre, and most likely my second home for the next two years. Having not only not danced for three weeks, but boycotted any form of physical activity whatsoever (apart from stumbling from pub to pub, and the occasional skipping gleefully through Venn Street Market on the hunt for maple bacon brownies), I was contemplating taking an intermediate level class as my first so not to run the risk of wanting to slit my wrists and slowly bleed out over the advanced one. But upon realizing that this class was going to cost me twenty canadian dollars, I resolved to pull up my big girl pants (I mean that literally, I'm fat now, remember) and risk the challenge and potential suicidal thoughts. If the fact that I practically passed out climbing the stairs to the 11th studio and actually had to stop to catch my breath at the top didn't make me want to reach for a razor blade, the forty other ninety pound primas with their legs over their heads certainly did the trick. In typical Chelsea fashion, I found a small area in the corner of the studio where every fellow dancer was in prime judging view, and then I began. With my true agenda hidden by my own stretching, I scanned the room, picking through the herd of hip loosening, leg swinging, bent over classmates, separating the possibly weak from the overly intimidating. But of course, the ratio of those that I could take, and those that made me want to give up on life was confidence crushing. Everyone looked like they belonged in a ballet company, or had once been before they became ancient or injured. Despite my heightened awareness of just how fat I actually looked in a bodysuit and tights (we're talking stuffed sausage. Bratworst material), I tried not to let these skinny bitches intimidate me. I had just done my Advanced 2 exam, for God's sake. Fuck them. I got this. And if need be, I could just sit on them and that'd be that. The class began and two things happened: the class was ridiculously easy, and the bitches were shit. In fairness, I had been warned that the calibre of dance over here was much lower, but I wasn't going to believe it until I saw it for myself. I saw it. I believe it. But I do this to myself in every single class I ever take. Scout out and judge everyone based on their appearance as to who was going to make me feel like the shittiest of dancers, and who I was going to make feel even shittier. You'd think I'd know better by now, but alas, I am quite dense. Ballerina resemblances aside, I doubt 3 quarters of this class would even pass their Advanced 2. But this didn't make me feel better. This made me never want to take that class again. Half the point of taking class is standing beside that person that makes you feel like total shit, so you work that much harder (and cry that much longer upon finishing). I've been doing ballet privates for 6 months. I crave that shitty feeling like a submissive craves a cracking whip. As I exited Pineapple, I grabbed a schedule and spent the tube ride home circling every other advanced class at my disposal… and maybe one or two advanced/professional. Baby steps. 

Cut to Friday. Friday being date day with very tall, very beautiful Sean. After speaking in great length about the impending day with Angela, I learned that the night we met, very tall, very beautiful Sean had asked her what he should do for our date in order to impress me. Her reply was nothing short of predictable. "Feed it and it will be happy"Yes, "it". So that is exactly what he planned to do. Three days before, I received a text asking me if I like steak. I laughed. Silly boy, you have so much to learn about Chelsea and her unwavering love of all and everything food. It was settled then that he'd be taking me to Gaucho. Naturally, I immediately looked up the restaurant online, and even more immediately, almost swallowed my tongue. Gaucho. One of the finest Argentinian steak houses in London. Very upscale, and VERY expensive. I went straight to the menu with the idea that I could properly prepare and look incredibly knowledgeable and nonchalant when ordering. Half way through the appetizers I knew this would be impossible. I couldn't even pronounce, let alone understand what half these things were. Shrimp Causita. Causita. Is that even a food? And the description is a joke. Like the restaurant is mocking you. If you don't know what this is, you don't deserve to eat it so good luck figuring it out. Shrimp Causita: Aji amarillo puree, leche de tigre, and a quails egg. First of all, no where in the description is there even a reference to shrimp, or what the hell causita even is. Second of all, it sounds more like a list of zoo animals, than a starter. Shrimp Causita: whipped armadillo, the milk of a french tiger, and a very small bird's egg. All for the bargain price of twenty Canadian dollars. Mmmm, sounds deliciously fulfilling. I'm fucked. Accepting the fact that I was doomed to stupidity concerning the menu, I opted to focus my energy on looking flawlessly fabulous and remarkably classy. Enough so, that my lack of intelligence and general overall class, would hopefully go unnoticed. One swift call to Angela, and we were on a mission (and an embarrassingly low budget) to find my missing class in the form of a dress. Thank Jesus for H&M, and Angela's straight forward "Oh God no, that hideous. Take it off now." approach. We were in and out and with a dress in no time, and only thirty pounds lighter in pocket. Bring it "Churrasco de Lomo". You're nothing but a slab of meat with a silly little name. 

….. Or at least I think that's what I ordered. 

Friday night, and I'm looking stunning. Olive green, sleek, long sleeve, knee length, clingy in all the right places dress, with a subtle mesh back and mesh side cut outs. The perfect amount of class, with just a hint of traditional slutty Chelsea. Nude Fluvog pumps, barely there gold accessories, and my token pin straight centre part hair. So very Jennifer Aniston of me. A quick walk to the tube, was all that kept my class and I from what was sure to be the perfect evening. But no. Not the case. It was an oddly warm evening that night and if you know anything about me, you know I sweat. I sweat so much so, that breathing too heavily could, and most likely would, induce perspiration. So inevitably this "quick walk", not to mention the wee bit of nerves surrounding the evening, left me with a beaded brow and noticeably darker olive green armpits. Shit. Shit, bugger, piss, shit, wank. This simply would not do. I needed to arrive flawless, not like I had come from a marathon… or the showers after said marathon. I was desperate and on a serious time crunch. I had already factored a "fashionably late" arrival into my travel time. Anything later would just be rude. But speeding up my walk would only mean more sweat. And the tube certainly wasn't going to cool me off. A confined space, loaded with people, and minimum air circulation. No. The cinema was my only hope, and conveniently directly across from the tube station. I ran into a cubical, pulled my hair off my back and started door fanning, tissue dabbing, and airing out my unforgiving, suddenly less classy, olive green dress. A final visit to the blowdryer for my damp pits, a touch up of lipstick, and crisis averted. I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said it took me 10 minutes to walk 10 feet to the tube station from the cinema, considering how consciously slow I was now walking, determined to prevent so much as a morsel of sweat to appear. Thirty minutes late. Way to go, Chels. Whatever, call it build up of anticipation. I managed to regain my flawless arrival. Being late was a small price to pay, and worth every pence. Pent? Is there a singular? And it's a good thing too because very tall, very beautiful Sean looked very stunning. The man can dress, I'll give him that. And he can pull off a scarf. Anyone can tell you that unless you're Chuck Bass, that takes skill. He walked me through the streets of downtown, to a place called The Folly for a pre dinner drink. This place was adorable, or what I could see of it anyway. It was absolutely packed, which is saying a lot because it was gigantic. Very tall, very beautiful Sean took my hand and led me through the hoards of people towards wine. The full capacity forced us rather close to each other as we stood sipping and chatting, which was more than ok with me. He smelled divine. Our reservation time was approaching, yes he made a reservation, very impressive. We walked again down the streets, but this time he held my hand, and it didn't feel strange, which was strange. Through an alley way, down some stairs, and we had arrived. Gaucho. Dark, trendy and underground, the place was filled with small tables, fancy people that occupied them, and cow print. Cow print everything. A tad bit odd, but fitting I suppose, for an establishment that prides themselves on serving said animal. We were told the specials by an authentic Argentinean waitress, and began with the featured house cocktail, which was basically sugar, with a hint of grapefruit in a champagne saucer glass. The saucer glass made me feel fancy though, so that's cool. Who even uses those these days? So very Great Gatsby chic. Basking in my moment of fancy saucers, in a fancy steak house, with my fancy dress, sitting across from my fancy escort, I almost forgot to feel a great sense of anxiety at the arrival of the dreaded menu. To my relief, very tall, very beautiful Sean was just as daft in translating what was apparently food choices in front of us. We laughed awkwardly, and tried to decide on an item that might as well have been written in braille. 

"Perhaps we should start small. Pick a wine, maybe?"

"Good call. Which would you prefer?"

"Red I suppose, if we're having beef. That's what you do, is it not?"

"Yup, absolutely." That at least I know. "Any kind you care for?"

"I'm really not much of a wine drinker so I will try anything."

Not much of a wine drinker. Ok, so he must be a beer man. Typical, and acceptable. This is fine. Nope, not that either. The man couldn't choose a beer if a gun was pointed at his temple. Rum and coke. The man drinks rum and coke. This bothered me a great deal. Rum and coke is how you lose your alcohol virginity. It's what you bring to a frat party. What girls who forget to put on pants before going clubbing on a thursday order-- until they realize they're getting fat and turn to gin and soda with lime. Rum and coke. Minus one point. 

"Alright then, how about we just get our server to recommend something?" 

"Great, make it a bottle."

Plus one point. 

The wine could have easily been the best wine I'd ever tasted, which wasn't hard to see when I got up to go to the "toilet" (that's what they call it here- don't even think about asking for the washroom) and realized my gulping it like grape juice had me a little tipsy. 

When I returned, authentic Argentinian approached with a chopping board full of raw cuts of meat. Quite hilarious really, as she explained the cuts and marinades in a very professional and knowledgable format, the carcass refused to behave the same way, sliding gradually further and further down the board. Please let one flop onto our table, with a repulsive smacking sound. How delightfully embarrassing would that be for her? In fairness though, this did make my decision making much easier. I am definitely a visual learner. Don't ask me what I ordered. All I can say is that if food orgasms are actually a thing, I climaxed. Instantly. I have never experienced steak like that. I pity other steaks and their meaningless existence. But then again, I'd never had a steak worth more than a pair of my shoes. 

We talked, we laughed, we gazed longingly into each other's equally mesmerizing eyes (his are blue. Of course they're blue) and before we knew it, three hours had passed. Three hours. Incredible. The bill arrived and my curiosity couldn't help but stealthily eye the total. Something like 200 pounds…. 400 dollars. Yah….Yes. Sweet Jesus. 

Next on the agenda was Sushi Samba! Very tall, very beautiful Sean informed me as we made our way, once again, through the streets of London that this place was the main reason he wanted to take me to this part of town. A glass elevator took us to the top floor of what had to be the tallest building this little country bumpkin had ever seen. A sushi bar, yes, but also a very fancy and well established cocktail bar. I have no idea what he ordered me but it was equally as fancy as the rest of the evening. He guided me up the stairs and out onto the roof top patio, the reason behind him taking me here. I stepped outside and there was London. All of it, as far as the eye could see, and in every direction. Lights flashing and the streets buzzing below, but the skyline so still and calm, and endless. This may just make up for the rum and coke debacle.

Needless to say, this date was obviously a great success. Will most likely remain in my top five best dates of all time. Or at least it will until I meet Hugh Grant or Jude Law. Pretty confident they'd outrank. Clive Owen definitely would. That man's a true gentleman, I'm sure. But until then, very tall, very beautiful Sean will be granted a second date. The first man to accomplish this in the seven months of my single status. So long as he doesn't order a rum and coke.