Trail of Crumbs

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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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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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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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I never, ever thought I’d tire of eating French food, but at some point during our short jaunt I realized that I could not eat another duck confit.

To be fair, this was less about being sick of duck confit and more about wanting to fit into the trousers I had brought with me. Because I could stop myself from eating duck in France, but I could not stop eating eclairs or macarons.

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Nasi Lemak: strange, and strangely addictive.

The first time Rand and I visited Sydney, we ate at the Opera House restaurant (at the invitation of conference organizers).

Our meal was absurdly posh and beautiful. Later, every one of us who partook in the oysters at dinner (myself, and a few other miserable souls) got a wicked case of food poisoning.

As one Aussie succinctly but graphically described the night, “Diarrhea mate. Diarrhea everywhere.”

This is not that story.

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The view from our breakfast table at Azure.

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Food on Hayman Island was absurdly expensive. I plan on writing an entire post about it, but it actually causes me physical pain to think about the prices of our meals there, so I’m procrastinating on that.

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Do you remember the interstitial sketch from Monty Python where John Cleese would say, “And now for something completely different?”

That seems like the perfect way to start off today’s post. Because today I am moving away from South Africa to tell you about the few brief days we spent in London. And I am not going to talk about the very important but nevertheless depressing things that I have talked about for the last few weeks. No mention of rape, or murder, or bombings, or anything like that.

No. Today’s post will about something completely different: bagels.

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Whenever I see someone who has succumbed to something incredibly touristy – whether it be the people running around Disney World with those invisible dogs on leashes, or anyone drinking beer out of a boot – two things go through my head:

  • That is so incredibly cheesy.
  • I … I kind of want in on that.

The only exception is when I see white, middle-aged women returning from the Caribbean with dreadlocks. I want no part of that, except to possibly pull them aside and, as I vigorously try to unplait their hair, counsel them against whatever other bad decisions they are about to make.

“Not even Bo Derek could pull this off,” I’d hiss. “AND SHE’S BO-FRIGGIN’-DEREK.”

It would be a public service.

But other than that exception, I find myself torn between being annoyed by the gimmick while I’m simultaneously seduced by it. And sometimes, despite my reservations, I fall for it.

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