For those of you searching for a touch of class in your next Valentine's Day dinner, allow me to recommend Capitol Hill's Two Quail, nestled at 320 Massachusetts Ave, NE.  While I can't speak to this establishment's food, or to its service, or even to its decor, I still feel confident that this is the perfect destination for the discerning gentleman and his cougar.  Perhaps it was the sign on the outside that proclaimed it "the most romantic restaurant in DC," or perhaps it was the impeccable manners of the maitre d'.  Or maybe it had to do with the way this same maitre d' would not even allow me to set foot in his restaurant on Valentine's Day.

"Not even to sit at the bar?" I pleaded.  My plan, you see, was to sit wistfully with a glass of top-shelf scotch, sipping and sloshing it about in my tumbler while making eyes at any and all women who seemed susceptible to attack.  I figured that on this day there would be many cougars who found themselves, as I do most years on February 14th, wandering into romantic restaurants with the intention of getting drunk, muttering curses at the happy couples, and dwelling on better times.

The maitre d', after double-checking to make sure there was indeed no girl on my arm to share in my humiliation, loudly suggested I try the Mexican place next door.  With that I was transported from the soft tones of the Two Quail vestibule to a room full of mariachi music and congressional interns.  Sitting at the bar, I found myself somewhat mollified by the prospect of eating a big plate of refried beans and rice (which I love).  Then I realized that I had, instinctually, ordered a frozen strawberry margarita.  This was a habit born of the days when I had a girlfriend, and wasn't afraid of looking like a sissy to everyone in the restaurant.  But what kind of cougar hunter would be caught dead with such girly drink? (it had still not dawned on me that the chances of meeting a cougar in this place were literally 1000 to 1).

I almost jumped out of my chair to yell "one for me too!" when a kid slid up next to me and ordered a tequila shot.  "I'm paying," I told him, playing it real cool and ignoring the startled look on his face.  When the shots came I said something like, "to love, and all the damage it's done us!" and we threw them back.  I tried to order us another round, but the kid basically ran back to his table.  I got one for myself anyway, which I threw back even faster, and then proceeded to alternate between a Dos Equis and furtive sips from my margarita.

It made a sort of cosmic sense that the person who finally brought me my beans and rice would be the most lovely creature in all of cougardom.  I cannot even begin to describe her in anything but the poorest terms--the best I've been able to muster in the days since have been older versions of current latina celebrities.  Indeed, after spending hours googling "attractive latina celebrities" (and sifting through all the porn), I've decided there's just no one who can come close to imitating this woman's mix of beauty and grace.  Am I exaggerating, gentleman?  I may be--the truth is I only saw her for a moment.  She set down my plate, smiled, and turned away; it was all I could do not to grab her by the wrist.  Maybe I should have.  How could I bring her back?  

"Tabasco!" I shouted. "I need tabasco sauce!"  The bartender approached and insolently tapped the bottle that was already in front of me.  Panicked, I ordered a chicken taco, then grabbed my fork and  buried my face in the refried beans.  I'd only have a short time to figure out a way to snare this cougar--all I needed, I was sure, was a way to make her stay and talk to me.  How could she not fall prey to my wit and charm? 

Several things happened next.  First, I heard the music switch suddenly from generic mariachi to "That's Amore," which came in at ear-splitting volume before someone turned it down.   Before I could even process what was happening, a giggling girl appeared out of nowhere and set a tequila shot on the bar. 

"From my friend!" she said. 

"Oh?"   I spun around hopefully, only to see everyone at the table behind me nearly falling over themselves laughing.  The kid I bought the shot for earlier was sitting in the middle, completely red, covering his face with his hands.

"He says, 'Happy Valentine's Day!" the girl shrieked, then pranced away. 

"Whatever," I muttered, drinking the tequila, and turning back to the bar.  Screw those stupid interns.  I had bigger fish to fry--or in this case, cougars to bag. 

Naturally, my chicken taco was now sitting right there under my nose, along with a check.  I stood up, trying to spot my elusive latina mistress, and suddenly realized that not only had I left my wallet in my car, I was also about to be drunk.      

The next ten minutes was a montage of me stumbling around trying to find the bathroom, bartering with the bartender about the check (I had to leave my coat with him until I came back with money), walking to my car in the snow, and then walking back after realizing my car keys were still in my coat.  On my way out of the Mexican place for the final time, I noticed a girl standing outside having a cigarette.  For a second I thought of offering to buy her dinner if she'd just go into Two Quail with me.  Thankfully I talked myself out of it, managing to salvage some shred of dignity from this whole episode.