As we dined out last night, and I fretted yet again that the waitress would spat in our appetizers of Brussels sprouts and brie (not mixed together, two separate apps, cuz’ that would be gross), I thought to myself: You don’t deserve this. You, who delight equally in chowing down at Jeane-Georges and on my homemade chicken fried steak. You who wined and dined me during our courtship and taught me the ways of the outer borough dive bars/edgy pub food. Who convinced me to travel to a hot, dry, soccer field in Red Hook for tacos. To the man who was my partner in eating our way through the five boroughs of New York (well, not Staten Island, never Staten Island).
I’m sorry. Continue reading