That's what Mike said last night at the Buenos Aires: We're having dinner like real people.
And we were.
Once upon a time, the four of us would often have dinner and socialize as two couples when we all lived in the Capital Hill neighborhood of Seattle.
"Before we all moved out to the 'burbs," I said.
"Before we started popping out babies," my wife pointed out. Amy laughed and nodded in agreement.
My wife has popped out only one baby. Amy has popped out three. That's four between them.
Mike reminded us all that it had been five years since the four of us had dinner together without the kids in tow.
Sober nods of agreement; time was surely passing, wasn't it?
The Argentine restaurant was well-chosen. Mike and I had celebrated our birthdays together at the Buenos Aires in November, but our wives had never dined there.
A pocket of foreignness in the Pacific Northwest was how Mike described it. The atmosphere was removed, stylish without being trendy, lighting low but not dim, the aroma of succulent grilled beef permeated the room. The food was fabulous from the get-go. The chimichurri sauce (an Argentine salsa) served with bread set the stage for a mixed grill feast that was complimented by a well-chosen, full-bodied Malbec.
According to my wife, the highlight of the evening was watching a beautiful young couple (professional dancers, without a doubt) perform the tango not only throughout the restaurant but on top of the bar.
"When they jump up and start dancing on that bar," our waitress told us in her thick Argentine accent, "you don't want to miss that."