I want to open a restaurant, she said. I will open a restaurant.

Soon after, she told me that she and her husband were looking for a place, they were working on it. I told her to call me when she did, and that I couldn't wait to eat there, where ever there ended up being. I'd eaten her food before, she'd catered some events, and that woman can cook.

Not that I wouldn't have gone anyway. She is my friend, I like her, and, let's face it, even a bad curry is usually edible. The fact that she's an excellent cook just made me look forward to it a little more. Not that that's any guarantee: plenty of good cooks preside over bad restaurants.

Several months back, I ran into my friend after not having seen her for a while. She told me they had found a place, and that they were wading through the inevitable Italian bureaucracy and all the other necessary things involved in opening up a restaurant. I told her to make sure to call me when they opened. "But Dilettante," she said, "of course I would call you!"

Two weeks ago, their restaurant opened for business, and she called me to tell me about it. She sounded proud and excited. I felt proud and excited for her. And she invited me to their inaugural lunch.

So at high noon on Saturday, steaming in the humid heat of Milan, Elvis and I took the Metro out past Piazzale Loreto, where the partigiani brought Mussolini's body after they killed him and strung it upside down from a gas station forecourt, and up Viale Monza, to my friend and her husband's brand new Indian restaurant.

Hers is not the only ethnic restaurant in this part of town. Loreto is now a vast traffic circle with a Metro station and underground parking ramp, and the gas station is long gone. The neighborhoods around Loreto and to the north are a mix of middle class Italians and immigrants, Asian grocery stores and ethnic restaurants of all types. In fact some of the best ethnic food in Milan is to be found in this area. I think it's rather fitting.

Their restaurant is named Aangen, and it is fabulous. The decor is lovely, the service excellent, the food superb. Truly wonderful all around. Later, they plan to use the large cellar to host occasional shows and musical entertainment. But later-- they want to make sure the restaurant is the best it can be before turning their attention to anything else. Rather intelligent of them, if you ask me.

I am so impressed, and just tickled for her.

I spent all Saturday night, in fact, eagerly recommending it to my friends.

It was easy to do, because I went out. Elvis, although invited, declined. It was too hot, he said, and the bar probably wouldn't have air conditioning. (It did, as it turns out, and better than our apartment's to boot.) And, crucially, Elvis was geeked out in front of the computer, editing a digital movie he took of one of U2's going away parties.

I wore my magic Emporio Armani top, which Angie talked me into buying and I haven't had a chance to wear yet. It's black silk, with tiny spagetti straps and a thick fringe of swingy jet beads around the upper arms. It's magic because it makes my stomach disappear. Completely vanish. A bargain at twice the price.

Plus, the beads make a neat swishy sound when I move. And, as I discovered, it's a blast to dance in.

We were there for two reasons. First, a British friend of mine and her husband are moving to the US this weekend. Second, another friend of mine is the drummer for the band that was playing. I've been wanting to see this band for a while because I know the drummer, and because they write their own songs.

I have not seen anything so hysterically funny and, well, odd in years. I used to hang out a punk bars, with punk bands. Then punk segued into new wave, and the bands started to look even less like something a nice Catholic girl would bring home to her mother (so I didn't). There was eyeliner, there was blush and lipstick, there was much abusing of hair gel. And the clothes... It was a look that either sex could adopt, and they did with varying degrees of success.

I wanted to be in a band. Big time. But I only played the flute, and Jethro Tull was definitely not hiring. I can write, and I did write a few songs. I had the look.

But I can't sing.

Or rather, I can sing, but not well. It's a fine voice, as long as no one is within 200 meters of me while I'm actually singing. I was not about to stand around with a tambourine and look appropriately new wavish while mouthing the words, so that hidden dream pretty much withered on the vine.

Not that it ever blossomed. I am, above all, a realist.

But I love music, I love live music, and I'm always up for listening. I hung out at clubs, even got to be friends with the bands, or with the friends of the bands. We drank and danced, and went to parties afterwards. I never, and I want to make this perfectly clear, slept with any of them. I wanted to be in a band, not have sex with them. Bunch of jerks, most of them, and not too attractive either. The kind of bands I liked had talent (to varying degrees), but no groupies, as much as they aspired to them.

Some of my friends and acquaintances did all right for themselves in the musical world. Some of the bands (well, three) became-- gasp!-- famous. How they managed this, at least one of them, I'll never know, but good for them.

So I did other things. I wrote about music. I deejayed for a while at the University radio station (now, alas, defunct.) I got my degrees (not music related), and a profession and a career, and it was nice. I still see bands and buy piles of CDs. I branched out into blues and jazz and opera, learned more about classical. I buy new music, and listen to new bands, but quite frankly I don't like half of what's out there these days.

Then again, I didn't like half of what was out there back then. I had a lot of fun though, and I miss those days, debauched as they were. And actually, I was never all that debauched. Wild, certainly. Debauched, no.

And at midnight on Saturday I was catapulted back in time.

The band's name is Dogs That War, and the lead singer and songwriter is a hoot. The lead guitarist looks like he plays with Santana, and my friend the drummer looks pretty normal. The lead singer shows up in a muddy brown caftan and stocking feet. And by stocking feet, I mean stockings with toes in them, and large runs (or ladders) up the back. Prince Valiant haircut, no make up, slender build, alto voice. In short, completely androgynous.

Eventually, I established that he was a he, British, possibly Welsh as he had a running gag about some Welshman who is quite possibly and entertainer. Or a poet.

And he was a riot. We were doubled over with laughter. Beer was spit, although not by me. After a while, he removed the caftan to reveal a short black dress (no bra) and garters holding up the stockings, which had acquired more runs during his antics. Later on, he vanished only to return wearing a mini-skirt and a beaded Egyptian collar type thing. Very Frank N. Furter, that one. Minus the stiletto shoes, of course.

They had a decent crowd of mostly expats and the people who love them. It was a small place. But as they played, a lot of Italians ventured downstairs. Some of them enjoyed the spectacle. Others understood at least some English, but they didn't get all the jokes, some of which, quite frankly, were pretty lewd.

"Please explain to me why all the laughter about bending?" we were asked, at one point, in Italian. "Surely bending for your partner is a good thing, not to be so proud and rigid?"

Sorry buddy, my Italian is just not up to that task.

The songs were clever, the music good. The SingSong Man is a born showman. But he needs to do one of two things. Either lose the outfits, as I really don't think he needs them and that sort of gimmick will only get you so far. Or, learn to wear heels and possibly make-up. Hey, it works for Eddie Izzard, I suppose.

I hope they make it, and I'm sorry I won't be around to watch them progress.

I always like it when dreams come true.