Biggie and I celebrated New Year's Eve at Serpas, which was named one of the country's "ten best new restaurants" in one of my husband's lame metrosexual magazines. GQ, I think--the one with Rihanna's boobs on the front. That's Ree-onna, by the way, so don't make the mistake of calling her Ree-anna. At least not in front of anyone in my family. All you'll hear is Reee-yann-naaa, along with references to Powder Springs, for the next three months.
Anyway, the restaurant was lovely, lots of glass and twinkly lights, and the food was excellent. I had a New York strip with french horn mushrooms(!), tiny eggplants, and tinier potatoes. Biggy had the pork shoulder with smoked cheese grits and sauteed greens. I had to eat his greens, of course, because, well, they're green.
The room was full of beautiful young people wearing expensive shoes and bustiers. More and more, I feel out of place in public. I've always felt like an outside observer, but the condition is getting worse. I guess I'll start wearing purple and all of that.