I had dinner with
a good friend tonight who wishes to remain anonymous—you’ll see why in a minute.
Whereas I’ll order a chardonnay label that I like, she will often choose
whatever is on the happy hour menu—often not a chardonnay. Tonight she asked
the wait person what the house wine was and ordered that. Thinking I wouldn’t be
a complete pain about it I agreed. She took one sip, looked at me, and said, “This
isn’t very good chardonnay.” I told her I was never trusting her about the
house wine again. When the bill came, we found out why it was the house choice:
$3.75 a glass.
Reminded me of
another friend who travels frequently and extensively, domestically and abroad.
When we met for dinner recently, she insisted we had to go early enough for
happy hour prices. And when we asked where everyone had parked, she revealed
that she had refused a place almost in front of the restaurant because you had
to pay there—so she walked a couple of blocks.
Excuse me, folks.
I’m not rich, but I am old enough that I want a good glass of chardonnay and a
convenient parking place. Call me extravagant if you want.
This has been a
quiet week. Last week was full of social occasions—dinners out, guests at the
cottage. This week, I have been home for four days, and for three of them
Jordan’s sporadic appearances provided my only adult company. It’s okay because
I have worked—my neighborhood newsletter took a lot of time!—and read and kept
up with the unbelievable politics of our country. Enough to keep anyone
occupied, but I was glad to go to supper tonight with someone whose company I
really enjoy (bad wine or not).
Speaking of
restaurants, my food-loving friends in Fort Worth will be sad to know that
Terra on Crockett closed, a longtime Mediterranean restaurant. The couple of
times I had dinner there were okay but not great, but at lunch they had an
outstanding Mediterranean buffet—pricey, but really good. The turnover of
restaurants on Crockett is amazing—and includes Patrizio’s which I still mourn
though it’s been gone a while.
On the home front,
Sophie had a spa day today. Bless WhiskerWashers who bring their portable salon
to the house. Sophie’s special groomer is a man I know as Bobo. When I once
told him we had to be careful because she’ll run given the chance, he—a large
man and not young—said, “Then we’ll have to be really careful, because I can’t
chase her.” Sophie is always excited to see him, and I have to say his kind
manner brightens my day. As for Sophie running, yeah, she’d take a clear chance
if she got it, but she’s less interested and less devious these days. Maybe as
she ages, she realizes she has a darn good deal here. Tonight, her coat is
soft, and she smells clean and wonderful. Won’t last, but it’s nice now.
I am having a
great time on the NYTimes Cooking Community Facebook page—recipes, queries,
comments, even such odd questions as “What’s your guilty pleasure in food?” See
my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow for my answer to that. But I am delighted
that I feel comfortable enough on the Facebook page to contribute—like the
woman who asked what she could do with several tins of anchovies. My answer:
make spaghetti sauce, make Caesar salad, put them in everything you can think
of—they add an earthy flavor, and no one says, “Yuck! They’re anchovies in
this.” They can’t tell.
My takeaway line
from that page today: Bay leaves are the dryer sheets of the kitchen. Seriously,
have you ever left them out of a stew? And did you notice a difference? I doubt
it. I think they’re often so stale they do little for flavor. My anonymous
dinner companion tonight pointed out that they do keep bugs out of your flour
if you tape them inside the container.
Rain tomorrow.
What joy! I hope it really happens.
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