That night we all showered and washed the essence of Zima out of our pores. We were in the car, in clothes-clothes instead of summer costumes. Going to an actual restaurant to eat instead of making meals out of things and the things you dip the things into.
I leaned over and took a bite of Fannie's shoulder, sort of the White Castle version of her knee, forgetting that I had just applied a great-tasting berry layer of brownish red lip gloss.
"Gah," I thought. "I hope that didn't leave a mark. My old friend might get in a snit if I wreck her shirt."
We settled into the restaurant, and I found myself sitting across from fancy Fannie. And sure enough, there on the back shoulder of a cute white shirt, was a steak of great-tasting berry. Crap. Fannie dresses well. She fluctuates between boho whimsy and professional whimsy. She sometimes shops at stores that I've only seen the likes of online. That shirt might be from Target ($24.99) or it might be from Anthropologie ($59.99). And I had just left a skid mark on it.
The night unfolded a bit like the Edgar Allen Poe story "The Tell Tale Heart." I could hear the streak bleating. It pulsed. It went neon. It got bigger. Other people, I was sure, could hear it. I kept wondering if she'd notice. Granted, she'd have to give her head the kind of spin that typically leads to an exorcism ... But she might see it. And she was going to be peee-ised. I sent Princess Linda, who was sitting on my right, a text message.
"I accidentally got lipstick on Fannie's shirt. I can't stop looking at it. Don't tell her."
She never actually noticed the stain, as far as I know. Maybe she saw it later. Or maybe she will see it when she launders the shirt. And maybe it wouldn't even occur to her that the mark came from me. I guess we'll never know.
In other things I did the past week:
Chickpea Croquettes with Greek Salad: This may look like Iams cat barf, but it was good. Little patties of chick peas, chick pea flour, red peppers, onions, garlic ... blah blah blah. Topped with cucs, feta, onions ... It was good. BTW this isn't the recipe I used.
Philly Cheesesteaks: We had this to celebrate "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" kick off night. Hot damn. I could eat this every day. The good news: Neither Chuck nor I knew where they hide the Cheez Whiz at the grocery store. The bad news: Now I know where they hide the Cheez Whiz at the grocery store. The worse news, there is still some in the refrigerator. The super good news: It will last forever, technically. Unless I crack into it.
Born Round: The Secret History of a Full-time Eater: Frank Bruni was a looming presence in a book published in 2007 chronicling the Manhattan restaurant Per Se’s hopes for a four-star review from the New York Times tough-ass food critic. The writer, Phoebe Damrosch, was a hostess-turned-server, and one of her story’s central conflicts and obsessions was spotting Bruni when he came into the restaurant, and making sure he had the best possible experience. That crumbs were swept up correctly; plates were pretty; the check presented to the correct diner.
Now, two years later, Bruni has written just the sort of book that Damrosch and her coworkers — and not to mention anyone associated with upscale dining in New York City — probably would have loved to snag a glimpse of during the five years in which he traveled the city fork load by fork load.
Full review here.
Never Cry Werewolf So this may be the final werewolf movie we watch. I mean, we have an entire werewolf movie-a-thon TiVo'd,but I think the genre has been exhausted. This telefilm, however, was pure hokey comedy. It was a lot like Twilight and a few other teeny flicks with a few Ripley from Aliens moments.