day 5: the train
I used to think your partner was affected when she turned up her nose at the Green Room food the night we met. Now, after only three months of your company, I am similarly effected by the prospect of the railway wine my parents insist on purchasing to accompany on our cold salmon. I can’t help but think back to Summerlicious a few weeks ago, and how we doubled our prix fixé bill with 6 glasses of wine. Or the staggering size of our wine bar bill, despite being spoiled with free off-menu treats from Tobey. I had thought that after I realized the size of my credit card bill and returned to fiscal responsibility, I would also return to the plonk of yesteryear. Instead, I find I’d rather drink the tap water I perennially tote along in 1L bottles than insult my palate with a wine I’d’ve thought “interesting” and “adult” last Easter. God help me, I even disliked the house draught at Saltlik, pining as I was for some Mill Street Wit with a slice of orange. You’re turning me into a snob. I kind of love it.
Maybe it has something to do with our bourgeois accoms, but I’ve really enjoyed the train today. The luxury of our pace, the exclusive sights, the tidbits of history and politics with which our attendant regales us seem more than civilized. Once again I discover that you don’t have to scratch deep below the surface to find my luxury-loving streak. (See: my reaction to Sunday brunch at the Hotel Macdonald following Preacher & Martha’s wedding, a morning that seriously damaged my ability to eat normal sausages.) Even my hat, a sturdy Tilley, fits into this love of the good life. Ah me, but I delight in being waited upon.
Or maybe I'm just charmed because I get to use the word ‘fishnets’ in a non-hosiery context for the first time in a decade.
The contents of this site, unless
otherwise noted, are copyright Rocketbride 1997-2009.
Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*