Breakfast was fun this morning. I had a mackerel fry-up on toast fingers, wrapped in wide strips of fish greased paper. I toothpicked a bow onto each one, and drizzled the plate with white pepper sauce. It may only have been a fish fry, but it looked like something you'd order in a fancy restaurant. I ate it with relish. The basementy taste of the paper teased my tongue. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, with the pepper sauce to soften the effect. I lingered at the table, poking at last week's Times crossword.
A little later, as I was rinsing the dishes, the phone rang.
"Howie."
"Mike?"
"You're coming today, right?"
"Sure."
"Well, look, a few of us are going to try out that new shrimp place after. You should come."
"I, uh...." I scrounged for an excuse without even realizing I was doing it. "I wasn't going to bring the car today. You'll let me know how it was?"
"You can ride with us," pressed Mike. "Sharon's coming with the sedan."
"She's not walking?"
"Nah. Errands, something. So you're coming?"
"Uh...."
"Great."
He hung up. A feeling of mild panic crept over me. I looked over at the fridge, with my list of rules taped to the door. Every meal must include at least one page of Gaiman. No exceptions. Papered shrimp might not be so bad, in a nice gumbo, maybe, but at a restaurant? What was I going to do, sit there shredding a chapter into my cocktail sauce? I could just imagine the looks on Mike and Sharon's faces. And on Monday, it would be all over the office, breaking yet another rule. No one at work must find out.
To make matters worse, I kind of wanted to go. We always make a thing out of it, when a new eatery goes in. I've never missed one of these outings. The solution came to me as I stacked the dishrack: I would go to the restaurant, eat lightly, and take home a doggie bag. Then, I'd make a big pot of garbage soup (leftovers, lentils, and a little of everything in the freezer. And on the bookshelf.) That way, I'd only be having part of a meal Gaiman-free. I had discovered a social dining loophole.
I'm glad I went. It was a good time. Mike and Sharon were there, of course, and their oldest son, Rob. Herb and Fern from the powerwalk group came too. And about half an hour into the meal, Alistair came puffing up, red-faced and rained upon. He started telling some long, involved story about transmission fluid. I couldn't make out a word he was saying, the way he was puffing and panting and tossing shrimp down his gullet, but it seemed funny all the same. Everyone at the table was in stitches by the time he got through. We spent most of the afternoon nibbling shrimp and swapping jokes back and forth. Beer and laughter flowed freely. Nobody noticed how lightly I ate.
Back home, I folded an armada of paper boats to float on the garbage sea. At dinner, I filled the boats with cracker crumbs, and capsized them one by one. For the first time in my life, my crackers stayed crispy till all the soup was gone. Neil Gaiman: fun, decorative, and functional. Who knew?
Comments