Tiramisu

At a rare dinner out together recently, Brian said just once he'd like to be with me when I have a truly enjoyable meal. While I realize that makes me sound like a food snob, I must admit the point because it appears to be true. After twelve-and-a-half years, Brian has yet to be with me in a restaurant where I practically melt because the food is just that good.

I had never noticed it until just this past week when he asked how my club sandwich was. I replied, fairly I think, that it was good but not my favorite. I mean, I'd eat it again if we came back to this restaurant, but there are already myriad factors that prevent us even from being in this situation in the first place. Babysitting is difficult and annoying to arrange. His work schedule is rarely reliable enough for us to make fixed plans. I am generally tired in the evenings. None of this is conducive towards us spending a relaxing mealtime together, so my enjoyment of whatever food we actually manage to get is not the highest priority in my own estimation. I'm happy enough to be having a break in the first place. Who cares if the steak is overdone or the katsu is dry? I didn't have to cook it; I don't have to clean up after it; and it is well above the standard of inedible. I say take the win and run with it.

But instead Brian wonders. He wonders what it's like for me to love a meal. He wonders why after a club sandwich I smile at a distant point over his shoulder and then sigh as my gaze fixes again on my plate. He wonders at the soft chuckle that accompanies me murmuring "comme presque brulé!" as my steak is placed before me. And he laughs. He laughs when I dare to try the tiramisu and then sigh in disappointment.

Because the thing is, I have had each of these and so many more dishes somewhere else where they were cooked and served to perfection. The tiramisu in Rome was wonderful. The first time I knew steak could practically melt in your mouth was at the French restaurant in Strasbourg. And it is largely a matter of nostalgia that no club sandwich will ever taste as good to me as the one they dish up at Zippy's in Honolulu. 

Ramen feels perfect when the rain is pouring in drenching sheets outside and one is cradling the oversized bowl on a tall stool in a hole-in-the-wall shop in Shibuya. Crepes off of street vendor stalls in Parisian alleys, calzones from a mom-and-pop shop that we ate piping hot in a quiet church courtyard in Bali, that slightly sweet chicken and wafer dish we found at the unknown restaurant down the street from our boarding school in Hefei. Nothing ever compares. 

I do not eat at sushi bars in my home state. You know why? I live in a landlocked state and I know the taste of actual catch-of-the-day. And while this particular example is extreme, the fact is, that though I know the udon at the local restaurant is really quite good, still I will sigh when I eat it because I cannot help it. I cannot help but remember chilled soba in Tokyo. I cannot help but compare the texture of the Weiner schnitzel mit spaetzle to the one I had in our one-day stop in Oberammergau. 

And apparently that's just the problem with everything. I always hope that the tiramisu everywhere will be just like I had in Rome.

Disappoint Me

I love feeling disappointed by a film adaptation of a beloved novel. As I leave the theater after two hours of such a good try, I tread the familiar territory of all failures previously experienced to leap the ravine between entertainment medias. The dialogue is rushed. The words are cheapened. A character is overlooked. Another is poorly portrayed. Yet another is altered unimaginably to serve the poor twists required of a new, shorter plot. A precious scene is left out. Another hamfistedly drenched in drawn-out drama, just to make sure you didn't miss the significance of that character's death.

I am never surprised at my disappointment. I accept it with the same quiet resignation that I hope someday to accept my death. Because in the end, I am the winner.

The drive home delights me as I hark back to lines I've treasured. I think hard to recall just how that scene was phrased that made me love it so very much. Yes, the actress certainly got the delivery wrong on that. I'm certain of it. And with growing anticipation, like waking on Christmas morning, I come home.

I welcome off my shelves the beloved copy I own and, as old friends, retire to the sofa to lose myself in the joy of perfect prose. Characters, closer than sisters to me, leap from pages to tease a smile from my careworn eyes. I laugh with them as heartily as though they sat beside me. Together we brave the fears, the dangers, the heartbreaks, and the joys. I walk beside them and smell the salt breeze in the open evening. Each and every time it renews my soul in a way unlike any other. As I close the tome after hours among those dearest to my heart, I almost look forward to another attempt. 

What will Hollywood try next? Which will be the next friend I come home to greet off my shelves? I hope they try some Tolstoy. I haven't visited Anna Karenina in ages.