Fri, 29 Oct 2010 18:36:58 -0700
Jaime & I sat at the empty bar at Salt House last night -- jubilant Giants fans in orange and black wanted no caramelized endives or truffle honey that night; they swarmed up 3rd St. past Yerba Buena Center, where we'd seen Kronos play Black Angels earlier that evening, whooping and hollering and getting cars to join in on their horns. So we had the place almost to ourselves, sipping vieux carrés and eating not-quite-midnight poutine (I skipped the meat gravy but cheated with the melty cheese on top). We nursed one long cocktail, spinning on barstools in our skirts, just catching up.
It's these small glasses of wine, forkfuls of eggplant caponatina, these varied and pretty pieces of cutlery that define and punctuate these days. Flesché's walnut pesto, followed by a Penicillin Number Two, me shaking my earrings and her her newly-short poof of hair as we discussed gender roles. Tablesful of pizza, bruschetta, and endless bottles of a juicy Montepulciano for Nathan's last day at the company, for which 10 or so men sprayed their hair temporarily purple. Champagne (and champagne, and champagne) and a vegan quinoa dish at Jimbob & Linda's wedding on Lake Merritt, as we sang and danced and toasted and danced some more. The leftover tofu cassoulet I froze and several cases of spare red wine from my birthday party, the one reheated with olive oil on the stove and eaten while tearing through my latest novel, a fire in the grate and wool socks on my feet. Jesse's learning how to cook dal and eat things besides fudge-pops; Cynthia still makes brownies from a box. The vegetables (finally, no more melon or grapes! Bring on the kale and delicata squash) from our CSA box wax and wane, sometimes disappearing in an ambitious stew or lasagne in my deep-sided casserole dish, sometimes neglected and rotting for Rosaura to clean out from the crisper drawers and compost every other Tuesday. A burrito for which I walked four blocks out of my way the last night, almost missing curtain of the quartet concert, just for its refried black beans.
Over one of these evenings' dinners -- burrata on pizza and drinks in hand, if I recall correctly -- Trisha, subliminally poisoned by her William Gibson novel, announced that she'd seen a cheap flight to London. Though my phone confirmed it was only a pre-tax fare, six of us decided to go anyhow -- hell, the trading window was about to open, GOOG was doing well, and we all had some options burning a hole in our pockets.
My plan for next week is the same as the last month: Returning to a vegetarian restaurant in Belsize Park; trying a vaunted cocktail bar with a sister in New York; finding a proper British high tea, with clotted cream for the when-in-Rome vegan. I'm sure I'll be pining for salads after eight days in the U.K. But one can't go to Slice every lunch and Beretta every night -- even if one is down to -35 hours of vacation time, one must shake it up a bit. Pass the Devonshire, please.