I had dinner with my good friend Todor last night. Every girl should have a Todor in their life, if they can; That is to say, a handsome, well dressed, witty, opinionated, cultured, European bon vivant. One's own personal Cary Grant.

We met at some trendy South of Market venue with low lighting, a plethora of gamine wait staff and things on the menu that were vague and alien (naturally, I opted for an appetizer that was preceded by the words "fried"). Todor was waiting for me at the bar, nursing a neat martini and dressed in Karl Lagerfeld. As is his habit, in advance of our meeting, he had warned me that he was obese and that his jet black hair run with grey, but of course, he was slim and sleek and the small points of gray in his hair were barely noticeable (and well, you know I like grey hair on a man anyway). He seemed disturbed by the use of a small plastic sword in his martini, which pierced and suspended the olive in the glass. He was genuinely concerned by the use of ambient cocktail accessories. How can you not adore this fellow?

We settled into our table and immediately launched into our usual topics of conversation: the obscure movies we've seen, various merits of modern art, and the latest offerings on Broadway. And we always seem to come back to opera. He's such a fan of Wagner that I have to dangle my preference for "The Magic Flute" in front of him. The very notion of opera as light hearted fantasy (versus doom, gloom, Armageddon and Hell) is incomprehensible to him. His idea of a good time is sitting through the five hours of Wagner's Ring Trilogy.

We sent the first bottle of pinot back after we tasted it. The sommelier looked surprised, but collectively we agreed the wine sucked. It was terribly acidic. I could only do that with Todor. Thank God. The second bottle the sommelier brought out, another pinot from Oregon, was much more palatable.

Todor is from a renowned diplomatic family in Bulgaria. He has enjoyed a life of particular privilege and is well traveled, well educated and well cultured. Yet, he can laugh at the most lowbrow stuff. That's a talent. He is the kind of person who will know the best hotel or the most intriguing restaurant in any city in the world. He can talk about sex and the merits of the Neil LaBute in the same sentence, without breaking the pace of his conversation. He appreciates the small details of one's wardrobe or accessories and comments knowingly. He's a man that can make you feel that you are interesting and fascinating, as only Europeans can do with their natural gift of charm. And he has particularly lovely brown eyes.

I confess that Todor is my true partner in martini consumption. He and I have had a few evenings (most memorably, at the Clift in SF, where we exceeded the three martini rule) and of course, we are purists. Bombay Sapphire gin is the only acceptable medium for a proper martini—a philosophy that we both share.

As expected, a totally satisfying evening with a cherished pal—witty, frank, profane, brilliant. Given our geographic separation, I don't often get to see him. But on the occasions we do, it's marvelous.