Sunday, June 27, 2010
Not the Marriott
It's different here. Complete and undiluted sensory overload about sums it up. Food tastes like food because a few hours previously it either had roots or feathers. Dinner - breast of Gascony duck with spinach and cream cheese, tiny potatoes fried in duck fat, weeping Tunisian figs and cheeses that tasted like cheese instead of corrugated cardboard, cut from the centre of a roundel the size of a car tyre - amongst other things - was taken on the terrasse (no misspelling), overlooking the river, surrounded by noisily copulating frogs.
OK. Moving on...
Last week HandyMan and I had a conversation, which is always interesting since, being Dutch Canadian, he's an hombre of few syllables, hence anything escaping into audible frequency is quite often worth hearing. We spoke about watches and he suggested to me that I might think about taking mine off. Having descended temporarily into panic and anxiety mode, this afternoon I decided I wasn't going to die if I removed it, thus found myself liberated by the twin influences of good food and wise men.