Cough

Yes, I've been sick since Kobe. When I saw the flight attendant point to a bottle of pills and then give the guy next to me a ziplock bag full of them, I knew that couldn't be good. Who knew that ANA dispenses medicine without a license? Lord knows what this guy had, but I got it, then I got Mr Guy's cold, and then last week I got the forklift factory cold. I haven't been out of bed since the 3rd.

But I'm summoning the strength to go out to a reunion of the oyster bar where I used to work many years ago. This was the place where I learned to shuck oysters and eat greens. The place where I literally saw the sound of Edith Piaf's voice drive a woman over the edge on Bastille Day, which proved a point I'd always been trying to make about Piaf anyway. And it was a place that inspired me to try to cook, because I was surrounded by people who could really do it. My first efforts were inedible, as witnessed by the unforgettable pumpkin and oyster pasta I proudly made myself one evening. Buuuurf.

It was a wonderful restaurant in a bad location that is still up and coming 15 years later.

The restaurant dwindled until one day the call came. Our bosses invited us in to pick up our final checks (paid out of their life savings) and drain the keg. They asked us to eat or take anything in the walk-in that was perishable. The tax man watched through the window from across the street. Never have (two) chocolate pot de cremes tasted so bitter.

It's foolish of me to get out of bed at this point, but to clap eyes on these people, I will.




Kemp's Balsam, where are you when I need you?