Rand is currently out of town (he left on Sunday morning, and he’ll be back tonight). His absence makes me nervous, because when he is not around, it means that I am alone.
Now, that wouldn’t be a problem except for this: I should not be left alone, ever. Being alone means that I am in charge of my own well-being – a task for which I am woefully unqualified. If I am the only person in the house, I can do whatever I like and there will be no one around to stop me from doing dangerous and calorically irresponsible things, usually while still in my pjs.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.