”What the fuck are you on?” she did not ask, but it amounts to the same. Instead, she said, after we were seated by the window, after I ran my fingers across the bright white tablecloth, my eyes briefly lighting on the sky outside, clouded and reflecting the sheen of the sun, before returning to look at hers, then her lips, then her nose: “I’ve never met someone who experiences food the way you do. When you really enjoy food, your face changes to bliss. That doesn’t happen often.”
No? Am I so picky? fussy? I don’t know if that’s true even if, over the years, I’ve been developing a taste for good food and wine.
Foie gras. Litchis. Ketchup potato chips.
These are some of my favourite foods. I have a taste for oddities, the sweet, the strange, things that give pleasure and delight.
I have no idea where I’ll be going with this blog. To some extent, the intent is to get my friends off my back, these “friends” who’ve been asking, “Why don’t you write about your culinary adventures?” And I say, “One day, one day,” delaying with the thought that, well, I have nothing to say, or write.