Jessica respected my wishes.
So there I was. Alone. At lunchtime. On my birthday.
I hopped in the car. Man, I can't tell you how great it was, driving around, trying to figure out where to go for lunch. I remembered a Chinese restaurant that I had longed to try. I drove there.
When I walked in, the maître d' looked at me, then over my shoulder to see how many others were joining me.
"Just, uh, one," I said, trying not to sound self-conscious.
"Very good," he said, and deposited me at a table in the middle of the room.
Needless to say, it was a great spot. Right in the center, where everybody in the place could see that I was dining. Alone. On my birthday.
I couldn't remember when I had had this much fun. Glad I didn't want anyone to do anything special.
A waiter brought a menu the size of a wall. As I perused my options, my eyes kept coming back to
"Salt-and-pepper anchovies," I mused to the waiter. "What, exactly, is that?"
He paused for a moment, perhaps to consider how best to describe the dish. "Salt-and-pepper anchovies," he replied.
"So," I said, and cleared my throat, "these are anchovies with salt and pepper?"
Glad we straightened that out.
"I'll have an order."
I love anchovies, but I almost never order them. That's because we're sharers, Jessica and I, and Jessica hates them.