So, who needs boys?

Not long ago my Texan friend Eve and I went to a faaabulous party for the launch of a book called “How to Meet Cute Boys” at Luna Park, a swank restaurant at Wilshire and La Brea.

As soon as we got inside, we grabbed two glasses of chilled Chardonnay off a passing tray and looked around. “Where are the cute boys?” I asked Eve. “Dunno,” she said, sipping her wine. “Darn it,” I said.

Just then a waitress offered us appetizers. “Mmm, tastes like beef stroganoff on toast,” I said. “I ain’t eating that,” Eve said.

We wandered. More trays of amazing snacks approached. “This is ricotta with cherry tomatoes crustini,” the pink-shirted waitress told us. “Do what?” Eve asked. “Crustini, it’s like toast,” I told her. “All right then,” she said.

“I don’t see any cute boys, do you?” I asked her. “Nope,” she said.

We found an empty booth in the corner. There was a copy of the book-of-the-hour on the table. “Hey, this is a novel, not a how-to book!” I said. Eve cursed, Texas style.

More appetizers floated by. Ahi ceviche and spicy chicken skewers and grilled shrimp. Yummy. “Are those mojitos?!” I asked as a waitress walked by with a tray of glasses filled with crushed mint. I jumped up and grabbed one. Eve ran after the waitress and managed to get the last one on the tray. “Mine has a little donkey on the rim,” she announced triumphantly. “Hmph, I’m going to go wait in line for the fortune teller,” I said.

“So where are the cute boys?” the girl behind me in line asked. She was a gorgeous gal with a subtle gold shimmer on her face and a fabulous necklace of antique gold coins around her neck. “This is becoming an existential question, I think,” I said, becoming philosophical as the effects of the mojito-plus-Chardonnay set in. Where is Paris Hilton? (she was on the guest list), I wondered. For that matter, where is Godot?

“I know so many cute, successful girls; where are the cute, successful men? That is a fabulous dress!” her cute, successful friend, wearing a vintage pink polka-dotted dress, shouted in my ear, above the din of “Whatta Man Whatta Man Whatta Mighty Mighty Man.”

“Dating in L.A. is the worst!” the first girl yelled. “Because being shallow enough to want to have a hot, yummy guy but not shallow enough to be able to overlook the hot guy’s lame qualities puts you in a weird dating purgatory.” “My God!” I exclaimed, tipsily astonished at this girl’s brilliance. All three of us plucked pink roses out of a bouquet on a nearby table and stuck them behind our ears.

A tray passed. “Are those mini-coconut cream pies?” I asked. “I can’t eat coconut,” my new pal, Carolyn, said. “Tragic!” I said, popping one in my mouth.

Carolyn and Ryanne and I exchanged cards and agreed to get together soon.

When it was my turn at the fortune teller, I asked the swami lady about a guy I’d just started seeing, and she asked me to pick a card. It said: “Set Your Sights Higher.” She nodded knowingly. Rut-row.

I rejoined Eve at our booth. “We’d better snag our goodie bags before they’re all gone,” she said. I agreed. We dragged them -- they were heavy -- back to our table and opened them with glee. It was like Christmas! We pulled out pink T-shirts that read “Super Very Good” (huh?), hemp oil shampoo and conditioner, lavender-scented candles, Juicy Couture condoms (who knew?), rhinestone toe jewelry, “Double Decker Red” nail polish and assorted other goodies.

By this time -- full, feted and befriended -- we had forgotten all about cute boys and how, exactly, to meet them.

Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samantha.bonar@latimes.com.