Trail of Crumbs

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Don’t let the idea of eating an entire raw animal in one bite scare you.

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I arrived at Oyster House long after the lunch rush, which is one of the advantages of traveling eastward – by the time you are hungry, everyone else has eaten.

It came recommend to me by our friend Nora, with whom we were staying.

“It’s really good,” she said. “And don’t worry – they have more than just oysters.”

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He has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

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When I was a kid, my family went out to eat approximately never. My mother will tell you that it was out of frugality, because my family was broke (not in a depressing, Charles-Dickens sort of way, but a charming and somewhat hilarious let’s-throw-a-blanket-over-the-kids-so-we-don’t-have-to-pay-for-them-at-the-Drive-In kind of way).

I’m sure our reluctance to eat out also had to do with the fact that restaurants don’t like patrons who sit around the table for three hours after the meal is finished, yelling at one another about nothing. This is a part of Italian culture, and if you think that I am over-generalizing, then you have never had dinner with an Italian family.

Seriously, my family can fight about what time it is, if you let them.

I find it all rather hilarious, and I often just sit back and enjoy the conflict, occasionally stoking the coals (“Don’t forget about daylight savings!” I’ll innocently add, and another hour will be lost to the yelling). Sometimes I even make a bag of popcorn and nibble on it as I watch the show, and they don’t even notice.

Before you judge me on my choice of entertainment, I will kindly remind you that it’s in my blood: the ancient Romans used to watch people tear one another apart in the Colosseum; by comparison, our family dinners involve fewer casualties, though there is just about as much sword-wielding and yelling.

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Rand had read about Buttercloud Bakery online, and decided we needed to go there for breakfast. This might have caused me to squeal a little bit.

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I like having breakfasts at bakeries. I like having practically any meal at a bakery. Hell, I’m beginning to think that maybe we should have gotten married at a bakery, but that would have been risky, because I likely would have ran off with a baker, or possibly just a very big cake.

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Bowen Island is lovely, but grocery shopping here will cost you your soul.

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Do you remember when Rand and I went to an island resort in the Great Barrier Reef, and it was wonderful and all, but the food was so expensive that I nearly passed out while simultaneously evacuating my bowels?

But then my body kicked in and said: WE CANNOT AFFORD TO LEAVE ANY NUTRIENTS UNDIGESTED. Not only did my bowels not evacuate, but I was constipated for a week while my tightwad intestines worked overtime to squeeze every last bit of value from our overpriced meals. When I finally went to the bathroom (which happened sometime after we got to Sydney), I’d so efficiently processed my food, that I released only a few little odorless pellets of pooh into the toilet. Like a rabbit. Or Gwyneth Paltrow.

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Looks can be deceiving: the somewhat sketchy facade of Zero One Sushi.

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I have a foggy recollection from many, many years ago. It was back when I was working with Rand (yeah … that happened), and we went to get lunch at a convenience store.

God, there are so many problems with that last sentence, but the important take-away is this: I once voluntarily ate a convenience store hot dog.

In what should be absolutely no surprise whatsoever, I spent the evening in the bathroom, where all manner of unspeakable things took place. It was awful.

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View out the train window, on the ride from Seattle to Vancouver.

- The other day, I was talking to a lovely young man named Eli. We had a thoroughly engrossing conversation, which is only slightly alarming in hindsight, because I am fairly certain that Eli was born in, like, 1989, and by then I’d been on the planet for almost a decade.

People born in 1989 should still be in their teens, right? I mean, their existence began after the Reagan administration. Marty McFly is trying to return to date FOUR YEARS prior to their arrival on this earth. That’s weird, people. (more…)

Many months ago, I wrote a post about the wonders of Bavarian food. I didn’t spend a lot of time fixating on dessert, which shows you just how darn good the sausages and breaded meat and dumplings of Southern Germany are (parenthetically, all of those dishes sound like euphemisms). A few folks told me that next time I found myself in that part of the world, I needed to try a dessert called kaiserschmarrn.

This intrigued me for several reasons:

  1. Kaiserschmarrn sounds like a term describing a sort of obnoxious, egotistical king. “Ugh, Henry VIII went through wives like a kindergardener does goldfish. He was such a kaiserschmarrn.” (In fact, the name literally translates to “the emperor’s mishmash”.)
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  2. It is rare that I encounter a dessert I’ve never heard of before. It’s like when biologists discover a new species of animal in the rain forest. On the one hand, it was bound to happen, but on the other? It’s crazy shocking that something this big escaped my notice. I AM AN EXPERT, PEOPLE. I should know about these things.

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I will probably forget the name of the brunch place we went to in Marais. I’ve forgotten it three times already, each and every time you told it to me, until you finally emailed me with the message “Don’t lose me.”

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You meant the restaurant name, of course, but somehow I read it as a request from you, personally. “Don’t lose me,” you said. As though that were even possible. You’re on my mind even when I’m unconscious.

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