Saturday morning I had a long over-due date with Peter, my best gay. We met for brunch at French Roast, a favorite cafe of ours on the edge of the West Village with a few outdoor tables that offer prime people-watching seats. French Roast with Peter has a special place in my heart. He took me there for the first time several years ago after we went to the Barney's sample sale (it was one of our first dates). As we were leaving Peter hooked his arm through mine and asked, "Do you think people look at us together and think, 'Poor girl, she doesn't realize her boyfriend is a flaming homosexual'?" I hope they do.
We snagged a seat outside, and within 5 minutes Peter had spotted Amanda Peet headed our way (he always sees celebrities - I think partially because he's always looking). She went into the restaurant and sat, with her daughter another celeb we couldn't identify, at the table on the other side of the window. I gawked momentarily and then returned my attention to Peter and my pomegranate mimosa. Towards the end of the meal Ms. Peet's daughter, who must be about 2 1/2, stood on the edge of the window sill and pressed herself against the glass. I waved; she giggled. Peter put his hands on the glass where hers were; she laughed as she pulled her hands away. We played this game on and off for the next 20 min or so. Amanda Peet must have thought we were either a) patient/sweet to be playing along or b) totally freaking nuts and thankful there was a pain of glass in between us and her child.
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