The Man: Hey, your blog is hilarious!
Me: Thank you.
The Man: It must be really fun to write whatever you want, huh?
Me: Yes, yes it is.
The Man: Who were you writing about? They sound insane.
Me: Um. Yeeesss. They can be pretty difficult to work with.
The Man: So I’m really glad we got that project straightened out.
Me: So A, B, and C with some P worked out?
The Man: They did, they did. [pause] Seriously, who were you writing about?
Oh internets, how I wish I were making this up. We are all truly blind to our faults, aren’t we?
For dinner I ensickened myself at The Fifth Floor. It wasn’t my fault. What was I supposed to do? Not eat the crazy rich and tender perfectly and barely cooked cuttlefish on a bed of crab salad? I don’t have super-human strength or god-like will power! Should I not have shoveled all the tender tea-smoked halibut down my gullet? Left some brandied cherries and almond custard tart on the plate? Not had a second helping of anise-seeded challah?
I did resist the caramelized melon and sous-vide chicken with a lobster sauce. I both resisted it and did not understand it. Can someone please explain it to me?
I’ll tell you this: that kitchen is putting out some very tasty food and yet there was no one there to eat it. The place was dead. The manager had a few ideas as to why: it was a Tuesday night, a HUGE convention was around last week so everyone is probably just exhausted, “this week” is a traditionally slow one. But I think everyone was home stuffing whatever cash they could find into their mattress.
Post a Comment