It starts out simple: meet the kids for dinner and catch up. He a successful, good-looking son-in-law with charm and humor. She a beautiful, caring, soon-to-be-mom sporting a babybump. What could be more ordinary? We meet at Fridas Mexican Cuisine on Beverly Dr and start in on the chips, two kinds of salsa. So far, so good. Then come the giant margaritas. Bring it on. Soon-to-be-mom isn’t drinking because, of course, she wants to have the healthiest baby girl, our first grandchild. The husband isn’t drinking because he never drinks (and I need a designated driver). So it’s just me and the son-in-law, and though he is somewhat younger than I (OK, a lot younger) I’m proud to say I can match him drink for drink. Well, two grande margaritas anyway. Enchiladas, fajitas, the evening goes swimmingly until someone (not to point fingers, but not the husband and not moi) mentions the dreaded word: CUPCAKE.
And because “Sprinkles” is so near by, and because they are so enthusiastic about the place (which is known to have lines around the block), and because I am ever so slightly tipsy on tequila and lime juice, we agree to check it out. It certainly wasn’t because we actually wanted any cupcakes, never-mind we each ordered two, we were just following their lead. Honest.