The Pleasure Is All Mine by Suzanne Pirret

Author:Suzanne Pirret
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780061687129
Publisher: IB Dave's Library
Published: 2009-03-02T08:00:00+00:00

S UZIE MANNERS ’S GUIDE TO

MODERN ETIQUETTE

Table manners are social agreements; they are devised precisely be- cause violence could so easily erupt at dinner . . . the individual’s personal interest is in pleasing, placating, and not frightening or dis- gusting the other diners.

— margaret visser, The Rituals of Dinner

As I began with my amuse-bouche of a delicate chanterelle mushroom soup topped with a wispy puff of chestnut foam and one single black truffle shaving layered exquisitely in a tiny shot glass, he began with his booger. He stuck his finger up inside his nostril, slid it down, caught it, rolled it fervently between his forefinger and thumb, and flicked it to the side—all in the blink of an eye.

Wtf.

I offered him some bread. He knocked back the soup and grabbed

two slices of warm sourdough bread. He scooped out a mound of

butter and spread it onto one slice, like icing on a cake. Then he placed the other slice on top, squished it down, and ate it. Like a sandwich.

He wrapped his hand around his wineglass, tilted his head

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straight back, opened his mouth wide—as though he were devouring a baby lamb (head first), and knocked the wine down his throat, leaving his fingerprints behind. The waiter promptly refi lled his glass.

His langoustines arrived and were dismembered like this: Bite

off head, suck out brains. Rip off tail, spit out shells. Pop body into mouth. Crunch down, chew. Heartily. And gulp. He then leaned

over my plate—uninvited—and dug into my little birds’ nests of

tagliatelle with morel mushrooms. He inhaled each strand as the

morels dribbled down onto the table. Then plopped them into his mouth, one by one, relishing each.

I like Neanderthals. They love to eat. Also, it’s nice to feel safe, protected. For example, if we were ever burglarized in the middle of the night, I know that he’d be the one downstairs with the baseball bat—and not me. I hate the guys who cower behind you—or under

the bed. You know the type. And although he did appear quite restrained in his bespoke tailored suit, it’s comforting to assume he can throw a good punch.

“Did you know shellfish are bottom-feeders?” he commented.

Um, yeah, I suppose so.

“That means they eat the shit from the bottom of the sea.”

Um, well yeah, I suppose so.

He was a man of few words. His voice had a remarkable resonance that gave me goose bumps. Although when he did speak, he would punctuate each thought with the tines of his fork, poking out into the air in front of him. And when he became really passionate, his fork would flail about wildly and within dangerously close

range of my eyes. I had no choice but to duck and weave, like Sugar B

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T H E P L E A S U R E I S A L L M I N E

Ray in the ring, causing a kinesthetic response with the woman

behind me. I’d encroach on her invisible boundary, she’d kick my shoe.

“Would you like another bottle of wine, sir?” the waiter asked as he began to clear our plates.

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