If it’s been a little quiet on this blog, well, there’s been good reason.
There is the issue of this book, you see. A book editing deadline, to be precise. After following my various exploits while traveling and researching “A Tiger In The Kitchen,” you’ll be patient, I hope, as I wade my way to the finish line later this month. The blog, with all its death-defying bread baking, restaurant explorations and virtual lunch dates, will be back to normal in no time, I promise.
In the meantime, however, there are things that can prod the bloggery back to life.
In this case, that would be a carton of green eggs, large, pert and in the loveliest shade of pale sage. The moment they were spied, said carton was whisked off the table at the Brooklyn Heights farmers market and ferried home for further inspection.
What to do with these green eggs? I immediately thought of the deviled eggs a talented artist friend, Moses Hoskins, recently served up for lunch …
We’re sitting at the Hemingway Bar at the Hôtel Ritz Paris, my friend Greg and I.
He leans over and says, soft and deep, “That face, it’s beyond the dreams of pornography.”
The face would be that of Roman the bartender, the friendliest man behind a bar that we’d met in our Paris jaunts thus far.
Greg and I, we’re bar people — we adore eating at bars, perhaps even more than eating at actual tables.
At bars, you tend to get to know your neighbors well — even if conversation only starts up because a fork is in your elbow. You have a front-row seat to behind-the-counter action, all the little dramas that aren’t meant to permeate through the welcoming smiles of waitresses.
You also get to know some pretty gifted entertainers pouring drinks — and Roman happened to be one of them.