We were going to Santa Fe. It was January and my to-be husband and I were giddy at taking our first trip together. I had found a quaint little hotel and each room had a fireplace to snuggle up in front of when it got cold. I was going to show him all my favorite haunts, including the historic town square, the Jackelope, the mesas, all of it. In the end we would go to Santa Fe, just not that day.
The snow started the night before and by the time the next morning came the highways were being closed. Honestly, the storm wasn't that bad. It was the wind. It blew and drifted snow just enough so our way south was closed. I refused to believe our getaway was not going to happen. Within several hours I had repacked my bags and we had two last minute tickets to Las Vegas.
Once we got to the airport, having made our way though a snowy Denver rush hour, we took our first deep breath. Of course, it wasn't until after we checked in that I tripped and fell over a pair of skis onto the beautiful marble of Denver International Airport's floor. Or when we were selected for extra security because of our last minute booking and I stood in the particle air blower thingy without my shoes, sweater or belt, wondering if we had made the right decision. It was also the first time my husband experienced all the fun that is air travel with me. Not being a fan of flying and not quite understanding or really wanting to understand the physics of drag and lift, I can honestly say I only hyperventilated 3 or 4 times during that flight to Vegas.
The meal? It was spectacular. It was the only restaurant still open when we got to our room in the Luxor at ten thirty at night. The Steakhouse. A completely unimpressive name. It looked overpriced, but what choice did we have? It was dark and smelled of leather and the faint odor of cigars from the bar in the front. The tables were stark white and the waiters were dressed in tuxedos. After the first glass of wine my knee and wrist didn't hurt quite so much and when our food arrived we were primed. Sinatra played in the background and my steak quite literally melted in my mouth. Chewing it was strictly optional. My husband's prawns were neatly lined up on his plate, fat and succulant. And the mushrooms we shared were the essence of that restaurant. Earthy, buttery, exquisite. We closed the restaurant that night. Sharing that meal, in that place, with each other, having survived that day, the magic of a brilliant meal was ours.
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