When BFF Had Meaning

I am definitely in a nostalgic mood after visiting two great high school friends in San Diego.

I think of my dear friend Philip as a gem among my friends.  During those high school years—the ones that seem so awkward in retrospect they make you cringe—he was the kind of true friend upon which a girl could always depend.  We both studied French, which made us members of a very small club.  In South Florida, where everything was bilingual as a matter of law, you were considered foolish or misguided if you studied anything other than Spanish.  My father’s cousin, Pearl, was the French teacher at our high school.  In order to study French, I was sworn to protect this information from becoming public because there was no option but to have her as my teacher.  I had become smitten with French as a young girl because of a children's record that Pearl produced.   I had always planned to study French in high school; it was an odd and unforeseen coincidence that Pearl ended up moving to Miami just to teach in our new school.

Although Philip and I were in lots of classes together, we became buddies in Pearl's French class.   We discovered kindred spirits who love language, literature, art, music, and fine French dining.  When Philip spent his summers in New York, we wrote letters back and forth until he returned for the beginning of the school year.   It seemed that we were never at a loss for things to jabber on about.  We stayed in touch through college, always making a point of getting together during vacations to seek out a local creperie or an authentic French restaurant. 

After college, Philip headed off to Denver for graduate school, settling into an impressive high-powered business career.  When I moved to San Francisco, I would occasionally visit Denver on business—affording us the opportunity to keep in touch.  Right on cue, our conversations invariably turned to food.  We both evolved into “foodies” with a meticulous cooking esthetic, so it was no surprise to me that Philip ended up following his heart and enrolling in culinary school.  Today he is one of the most sought after restaurant managers in the country.  The busy Oceanaire Seafood Room in San Diego is lucky to have him as their GM.

I met Philip at his restaurant during the Saturday afternoon dinner prep.  There is no lunch service, so we sat at an elegantly appointed table and shared a bottle of San Pellegrino.  I could sense the electricity in the kitchen beyond the swinging doors.  After twenty years, catching up with him was like sipping a warm bowl of chicken soup. 

I define a great friendship as this:  no matter how long it has been since you have last seen each other, you just pick up where you left off.  Certainly we had a lot of catching up to do, but it was the easy, relaxed conversation of close friends.  We laughed off our respective signs of old age (the years look better on him).  His kitchen staff took turns approaching the table to confirm the legends of his erstwhile hair.  And we asked enough questions to ascertain for ourselves that the other is happy in this current stage of life. 

There is one “Philip moment” that I will cherish always.  When I got married, thirty years ago, Philip sent me a gorgeous piece of art glass made by renowned artists in Colorado.   The gift arrived just days before the wedding, and deep inside the thousands of Styrofoam peanuts was an even greater gift--a letter that I have kept all these years.  It makes me laugh to this day as it did when I first read it.  I am sure he wouldn't mind if I share it:

“Dearest Ellen & betrothed Tom—

Ellen, Ellen, Ellen, Ellen. . .you’re such a little kidder!  The cute invitations, the calligraphy; it’s all to wonderfully aesthetic to be, shall we say, la verité?

But, can it be??!  Is our “petite Ellen” tying the proverbial marriage knot??  In what mischievous direction has Cupid shot his love-tainted arrow?!

This man, Thomas, (presumably in the prime of his youth) has absconded with our little treasure, the Chopin, if you will, of the Blintz and Gucci circuit!!  Well, if it feels right—don’t think twice!!  So let the heavens rejoice, the nymphs dance, Falstaff drink, Pan play his merry fife, and me faint, for the bells are ringing and the stars are shining for Ellen!!                                                                                           
Much love—P”