I like to dine alone. Besides the coolness factor, it gives me an opportunity to eat my heart out at half the price of a beautiful companion and concentrate more intensely on the eating experience; dressed in a clandestine manner, carrying a book on brain chemistry, I explore the night for culinary delight. I often do it and tonight I decided to go the V & A Waterfront, a cluster fuck of restaurants next to the ocean.
I quietly visited all the restaurants as though shopping, interviewing their menus slowly, languidly. The shopping was without doubt as enjoyable as the buying. I loved the delicious sense of treating myself. I had teleported my child nature into an adult state with as much cash as I needed. I was limited only by my personal choice, not even having to take into account a partners persuasions.
Eventually I decided on a restaurant called 221, specializing in what you might call ‘global now food’ if you had no idea how food is actually officially categorized, which I don’t. The main decision pole was to make sure that the restaurant served oysters, since I was still in oyster consciousness from the previous evening.
I had just been served my first drink, pulled out my brain chemistry book and sidled comfortably into my seat when I was informed by the waiter that the oysters were finished; This is despite the fact that the last five restaurants had aggressively displayed whole tanks of the little fuckers bubbling with streams of water to keep them fresh and delicious.
Oh well, such is life. I rubbed my hands together in glee as I relished the thought of treating myself to a sensational dinner. I had a starter of delicately fried prawns in a cocoon of Baklavah string pastry, served with a light buttery sauce. It was delicious but needed a twist of lime. I made some notes, next to a list of the ingredients.
Next up was another starter, country smoked trout and cucumber wrapped around a bar of creamed cheese with an array of cute sauces that had been scraped through by foodie tooth picks to make them look dramatic. I was really beginning to enjoy myself now but my stomach had had enough of the richness.
I don’t normally eat desert but restaurants the world over have developed a secret weapon that they use shamelessly to force your brain to eat more. It is called Crème Brulet and you have to be six foot under not to feel a twinge in your stomach just reading those words.
I was also almost done with my glass of very expensive wine. I had been so engrossed in my food that I had neglected to order another and now it seemed sort of rude to eat the Brulet without some wine. Impulsively, I decided to order some brandy, a patchwork of memories of films reliably informing me that Brandy and desert was something yummy to do.
The waiter, who had been very sheepish and cooperative since the debacle of the oyster drought, asked me what kind of Brandy I was requesting. He quickly worked out that I had no clue and said that he would bring me a surprise.
Oh my. Oh my, oh my. Who else knows about this Brandy stuff? Why the fuck didn’t someone tell me? I thought brandy was stuff that teenagers and Afrikaners mixed with liters of coke to kill time and brain cells.
The waiter, true to his word, brought it in a tumbler which itself was floating in a bigger tumbler half filled with steaming hot water in which steeped coffee beans. A spoon of brulet, followed by the tiniest sip of brandy – that is to say, the butter soft lips of an angel followed by the flash of her tongue and the sweet, rich hint of her breath.
In love, totally in love with this feeling – mission accomplished.