A dinner? A supper? A meal.

I've been reading DFW's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again collection of essays + arguments the past week or so, and it's inspired me, which is, really, pretty impressive; I've been in such a lengthy drought that I wasn't certain I'd pull myself out of it with any degree of success (though I guess I can't really weigh in on the success of this venture or not; maybe just getting something written can be considered success enough? This time: sure). But yeah so this collection sort of pushed the write buttons, if you'll allow that. What to tackle, though, right? What can I put this reawakened writerly zeal to work on? It had to be something new, though, I felt, before I started writing things out. Why not the supper that my partner g. and I enjoyed in celebration of our third anniversary? Sounds good to me! (and don't worry: I know I don't hold a candle to the hurricane that was DFW, but inspiration is inspiration and the inspired are not chosen by the inspirer. But writing is good; it's such a primal urge that after having been depriving myself of such an outlet [simply because I just could not write anything; nothing would come out of me], the feeling of its return is such elation; to such a degree that I'm like a mindless fool here [an out-of-practice mindless fool at that!]. So, keep this in mind, I guess: I'm just having a good time.)

Tonight, we went out to a Fancy Place (well, fancy in my eyes) for a nice, celebratory, lengthy, full meal. The place: The Rushton; a place of candles in frosted glasses on tables; metal-tiled (brass? tin? I don't really know these things. And after several seconds of intense research: pressed tin.) ceiling (it really is a lovely ceiling); an ornate chandelier, of some sort of impressive origins, I have faith (again with the intense research: bronze, vintage piece from 1920s France); original artwork on the walls (and for sale! Of much of the stuff that's been there in the past, there have been several pieces that, were I gifted with any amount of disposable income, I would have loved to have provided with a good home); dimmed lights, a requisite in this sort of place, I think—something inspiring hushed talk (which, as the place fills up, doesn't really work, but oh well: the atmosphere still hovers), implying some sort of privacy; curtains outside, in the pre-entry vestibule—lush curtains which hint at something—again—secret, secluded, private; an intimate place, well-suited to just such a celebratory, lengthy, full meal.

First off, of course: the wine course. Kicked things off with a bottle of Tawse Winery Chardonnay. 2006, if I remember correctly. Is it all right to say that ordering wine by the bottle makes me uneasy? That whole server coming to the table and displaying the bottle, cutting the foil, pulling the cork and then? oh, and then: the tasting. Does it make cold sweat pop out on anyone else's back? (just for posterity's sake: I've never been the actual taster; that privilege has always [by always, I mean: both times {which were both at anniversary suppers , incidentally}] fallen to g. Oh, brave g.; I shudder at the very idea of being the responsible party.) I look at that splash of wine in the bottom of the glass, the server (Rob, according to my receipt [who was pretty great]) waiting patiently for the verdict and I feel like a cringe. Yeah, that's right: like I'm some sort of full-body cringe, like I am cringe personified. What happens if we don't like it? Do they take it back? Do we still have to pay for it? What do they do with the opened bottle of undrunk wine? Deep, ponderous, metaphysical. The sort of stuff that keeps people awake at night, to be sure. Fortunately, g. accepts the wine. A breath (apparently I had been holding my breath? Who knew?) escapes me, but I'm left wondering: does g. actually like it? I think, if I were in the same position, I'd probably tell the server that, I don't know, gasoline was acceptable if that's what they poured for me. But to the wine itself: it was really quite tasty, with this interesting full smokiness and, like, a very clean taste. Like I was rinsing, sanitising, sterilising my insides. In the best way possible (though the sediment in the wine was a bit offputting [I thought the first chunk was a bread crumb]).

A bread crumb from that wonderful thing: meal-prologue bread (don't you love when a meal has a prologue of fresh bread and some sort of wonderful spread comprised of chick peas, red peppers, garlic, spices and who knows what else?), which, thankfully, was not responsible for the bottom-feeding wine glass flotsam (I was unreasonably placated when I discovered the true source; I can't really explain [honestly flabbergasted here {as an aside within this aside: is it odd—atypical, perhaps?—that, when I look up words at dictionary.com, I don't first go to the mainpage, but rather go directly to the word's page ?}] why wine chunk is better than bread chunk), was a great Whetter of Appetite.

In retrospect, I imagine that whetted appetite would've been better served with something a little more upscale, a little more high-falutin', than fish 'n' chips (though it least it bore the more adultly coded name of "fish fry")—something like the pasta, maybe (or the swordfish special, like g. got). But whatever: I love me some good fish 'n' chips. Oh, yeah: and the chip part of the equation: totally sweet potato. Always a good time.

G.'s swordfish special also looked like a good time—big ol' fish-block! And collard (g.: "oh, C—O—L—L—A—R—no E—D") greens that were tastily plant (plant as adj.). The swordfish also was tastily something (though not plant).

Interlude! (aka: bathroom break):
As with most of these shoebox-sized restaurants, the bathroom is in the basement, which is nice: no chance of getting the table by the bathrooms here. The railing to the basement? Holy moly: it's bigger around than I am; it's like a banister exemplar. Solid. Comfortingly so. And a word of warning (well, several words, really): there is a mirror at the bottom of the stairs. A full-length, floor-to-ceiling sort of affair. To your right. You can't see it until you reach the bottom and then bam! there you are and your peripheral vision is telling you that someone is tailing you, that someone is sort of coming toward you and it's mildly frightening in an atavistic sort of way. The men's bathroom is an interestingly laid-out awkward failure: there's a toilet and a urinal (speaking of: why do so many urinals have their drain holes aligned in such a way as to suggest no other image but a penis [REALLY!]? [This one, however, did not; it moreso resembled the Y that happens in drawings of a female crotch. Urinal drain holes, man. No idea.]), separated by about half a foot, with nary a divider. It's very unlikely that both are ever used at the same time. Anyway, the sink's really cool. It's a rectangular prism, with a smaller rectangular prism cut out of it. There's a lovely fake orchid, too.

Back to the food! Know what comes after the main course? Yup. Exactly. Dessert. What a wonderful thing. I have a sweet tooth that is verging on the ridiculous, that could outfight the sweet tooth of any kid ever. I still (sometimes, when it's available) will eat spoonfuls of sugar. Just like that. I'm a fan of dessert-time. I got a chocolate pecan tart, which was more than suitably delicious and came partnered with a blackberry. I love blackberries. Smooth (I love fuzzless, redless raspberries [though I also love fuzzy, red raspberries—and those coppery "autumn gold" ones, too]), less tart and so yummy! I love the look of them, too: all those little berry-balls stuck together... G.'s chocolate torte was also tasty (perhaps... scrumptious?) and came partnered with something that looked like some sort of combination of plum tomato and cherry that also happened to be orange and that tasted like some berry that I am entirely familiar with but that I couldn't tell you the name of.

So, that was the meal. Not even the best part, though. The best part was hanging out with g., celebrating us, just having a grand old time. Talking and laughing and being all anecdotal.

Bizarre admission time: at work I was really excited about this and, quite unexpectedly, nervous. Yeah. Nervous. It was like a first date, or something; it was like discovery, learning, meeting again. And, another admission: I loved that. Every day is beginning, continuance, culmination.

A final note (finally, huh? I mean: come on, this went on for ages! I really didn't expect that.): I had a lot of unabashed fun writing this. And it felt so good to write again. To put words into sentences into paragraphs into a full thing. Whether it'll even be interesting to anyone else: I don't know. I hope so, of course, but if not: that's all right, too. It fulfilled its goal for me: affirming that I was still (sort of) capable of writing. I feel better, clearer. And all it took was a little food, a little wine, a little celebration and an amazing partner.