I was chewing my first bite. “It’s amazing,” I promised. He took a bite, swallowed.
“God. If asparagus tasted like that all the time, I’d be a vegetarian, too.”
Some people in a lacquered wooden boat approached us on the canal below.
One of them, a woman with curly blond hair, maybe thirty, drank from a beer then raised her glass toward us and shouted something.
“We don’t speak Dutch,” Gus shouted back. One of the others shouted a translation: “The beautiful couple is beautiful.”
The food was so good that with each passing course, our conversation devolved further into fragmented celebrations of its deliciousness:
“I want this dragon carrot risotto to become a person so I can take it to Las Vegas and marry it.”
“Sweet-pea sorbet, you are so unexpectedly magnificent.” I wish I’d been hungrier.
After green garlic gnocchi with red mustard leaves, the waiter said, “Dessert next. More stars first?” I shook my head.
Two glasses was enough for me. Champagne was no exception to my high tolerance for depressants and pain relievers;
I felt warm but not intoxicated. But I didn’t want to get drunk.
Nights like this one didn’t come along often, and I wanted to remember it.
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