We’d just had a big fight in the streets of Paris. The map ripped in half, names were called, gauntlets thrown. It’s day three of our five-week trip through Europe. The last thing I want to do is sit down with him for a fancy French dinner, but I don’t want to eat some crap later.
So, apologizing for being late, we’re seated at a tiny table in the middle of l’Épi Dupin in the 6th. We’re tucked up next to a pair of German businessmen. There’s nothing to do but let go of the argument and enjoy the meal.
The food was incredible. The amuse bouche: something green turned into jelly under a pumpkin purée scattered with poppy seeds, sesame-crusted fried mussels afloat a sweet potato purée with a fluff of foam, and dorade filet atop a bed of leeks and cream and garnished with a sweet drizzle of something A bottle of sassy wine (I never remember what we drink). For dessert, sable with vanilla cream and fresh raspberries.I’m panting just writing this, from the memory of it plus the effort it takes to describe food like this. I bow to food writers everywhere, for they work hard.
Over dinner, my partner illuminates one fact of life to me: Men only care about sex, and if they tell you something else, they are lying.