#71
Their lack of discernment about what to eat and drink left me bewildered. The bottles of wine ordered at a dinner, unpalatable, despite their price. The food, often times described by them when recounting a dinner in the same establishment, was over done, too much, to many additions hiding the fact that the raw ingredients were tasteless to begin with. Their lack of gastronomic knowledge can only be described as childish, basic - for that all you have to know is that one of them starts their day with Diet Coke, and ends their day with Diet Coke.
My palate is refined and when presented with these “meals”, refuses to be pleased, happy, or satiated in any way. Let’s not even mention the way they dress.
Once, over a “happy hour”, that was decidedly not-happy, oaky chardonnay and plates of rubbery cheese were on the table. I excused myself, and left, hopping on my bike, and once home, opening a bottle of nebbiolo that I had saved for a day when I was very sad. I drank most of it, with pieces of parmesan I had brought home from my last trip to Italy, and a slice or two of bread with oil and salt. It didn’t have to be so hard.
My bottles of nebbiolo were getting low — there had been a lot of sad days, and while I didn’t like to wallow in self misery, or dull my senses with alcohol, these bottles weren’t alcohol so much as a drink. I carried on perfectly well the rest of the night, finishing a book I had been reading, understanding its place in my life and my story, and writing a note to a friend. I sat, listening to the radio, the local station played jazz this time of evening. The dog was asleep on the sofa, in a peaceful repose, one which I hoped for as I turned down the lights, shut off the music, finished my glass and went to bed.