I only eat wagyu beef, white truffles, and beluga caviar. Just a heads up in case I ever come to dinner.
My wife’s cousin eating a salad. She takes the fork and puts it in her non-dominant hand. Then uses her dominant hand to start imapling her fork with pieces of the salad, because she can not eat the salad without creating “the perfect bite” every time. And then she dips the fork skewer she has created in dressing to eat. At home, eating out, doesn't matter.
No way in hell. I've got an opposite but equal food complex where I get angry when I see them pick mushrooms off of their pizza, let alone won't touch the food on their plate. Eat the food goddammit
We are past the saying anything at this point. Just set there and eat in shame for her because she is obviously way past that.
This cultured connoisseur, this red-blooded American manly meat man, this absolute bastion of steak and potato purity, believes that TGI Fridays is a good enough steak. Whaaaat the fuck.
I think about this excerpt from Plath’s the Bell Jar a lot whenever I’m in a fine dining atmosphere bc frankly it’s true I'd discovered, after a lot of extreme apprehension about what spoons to use, that if you do something incorrect at table with a certain arrogance, as if you knew perfectly well you were doing it properly, you can get away with it and nobody will think you are bad-mannered or poorly brought up. They will think you are original and very witty. I learned this trick the day Jay Cee took me to lunch with a famous poet. He wore a horrible, lumpy, speckled brown tweed jacket and grey pants and a red-and-blue checked open-throated jersey in a very formal restaurant full of fountains and chandeliers, where all the other men were dressed in dark suits and immaculate white shirts. This poet ate his salad with his fingers, leaf by leaf, while talking to me about the antithesis of nature and art. I couldn't take my eyes off the pale, stubby white fingers travelling back and forth from the poet's salad bowl to the poet's mouth with one dripping lettuce leaf after another. Nobody giggled or whispered rude remarks. The poet made eating salad with your fingers seem to be the only natural and sensible thing to do.
Tim reminds me of my favorite Lucy Adkins poem: He was traveling from Chicago to Joliet, he said, on the expressway, Old State Highway 59, when a semi rollover caused a load of potatoes to scatter across the road. People stopped, pulled their pickups and jeeps, their Chevy vans and VW bugs off to the shoulder, got out and dashed across three lanes of traffic after Idaho russets and Yukon Golds, reds and whites and yams. I’d have understood if it were a Brinks truck with flyaway tens and twenties. But potatoes? Perhaps it was the fact of sudden bounty dropping down in front of you, and like unexpected grace, you must be grateful, whatever it is that is given.
Got an eight foot bed that never has to be made. You know if it weren't for trucks, we wouldn't have tailgates.
I always roll my eyes at the screaming thing, but I legitimately think I hurt myself laughing so hard Spoiler: Reply guy