In 2002, four good friends, water polo players and Californians, tending tall, but with a foot separating top to bottom, went west on one of those round the world tickets and kept going west for half a year until they got back to California. All four disliked shirts and two were deathly allergic to peanuts so they learned how to say, "No peanuts," in about twenty languages while the three not talking pantomimed death by grabbing their necks with both hands and falling to the ground. They had to be sure.
Baleen and I won't go to those lengths, but on Monday night, the 12th of September, I'll hover over every dish and ask, "Findik?" Were Baleen to have any hazelnuts, it wouldn't be as bad as it would have been for the topless two, but it's still bad and there's just nothing exciting about foreign country bad. But that won't keep us from the place I'm talking about which I can't tell you about because I'd like to keep it a secret from Baleen, an occasional visitor to these pages. Know that it's on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, that the owner has resisted opening anything for decades in the more touristy spots because then, "I wouldn't be able to walk to them," and that first bites make eighty year old women cry remembering their Anatolian childhood.
I stayed dry on tonight's first bite of mango and coconut rice salad not, I'd argue, because it wasn't any good, but because I didn't grow up in the tropics. It's my last meal before Baleen returns, and the last night to enjoy the only two things she doesn't, dill, from last night's couscous, and tonight, red peppers.
Baleen and I won't go to those lengths, but on Monday night, the 12th of September, I'll hover over every dish and ask, "Findik?" Were Baleen to have any hazelnuts, it wouldn't be as bad as it would have been for the topless two, but it's still bad and there's just nothing exciting about foreign country bad. But that won't keep us from the place I'm talking about which I can't tell you about because I'd like to keep it a secret from Baleen, an occasional visitor to these pages. Know that it's on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, that the owner has resisted opening anything for decades in the more touristy spots because then, "I wouldn't be able to walk to them," and that first bites make eighty year old women cry remembering their Anatolian childhood.
I stayed dry on tonight's first bite of mango and coconut rice salad not, I'd argue, because it wasn't any good, but because I didn't grow up in the tropics. It's my last meal before Baleen returns, and the last night to enjoy the only two things she doesn't, dill, from last night's couscous, and tonight, red peppers.
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