to a Sunday Brunch, Darling?
I'd wear the classic white dress and pearls. While you wear that favorite tweed blazer of yours, with a white shirt and cotton trousers and don't bother with a tie.
How about a little brasserie down by the Thames; would you like that? You could carry your flamenco guitar in there and we could get a table by the riviera.
We would walk in, our heads held high, our every movement frozen in art. People engrossed in meal and conversation would take a moment and notice us and then get back to their humdrum. They do not know how to reinstate magic, to a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Do we notice them, you ask, and I say well, not really, not today. Today we reserve ourselves to our bubbles; confine ourselves to the indulgences of a good life. Today we be the Epicures, we live for beauty, for gluttony, for art and for respite from the mundane. For these few hours, we are the dancing characters of a snow globe, oblivious to the world around us; arrested in our moment while the world spins past our eyes, as if on board a merry-go-round.
They must think we're lovers. I find the thought amusing, and I can see, so do you. Hardly do they know, that you are me and I am you and the affair of our friendship is only incidental to who we are. But let us brush aside the matter of our affinity for the time being.
We seat ourselves by the café's portico and let our gaze rest upon the bustling traffic on the Thames. Had it been any other day, I would have asked for some Sashimi, Caviar and Sake, but today, let us gratify our senses with the Mediterranean delights, shall we? A platter of Mezze and a bottle of Sambuca as apértif. Why not wine, you ask. And I say, let us be true to our rebellious souls.
The redolent Tabuleh, seasoned with olive and thyme, after a morsel of Pitta and Hummus make for a perfect beginning. Anybody else would call them appetizers, but we're Indian, Darling. We believe that a satisfied tongue is a good beginning; a sign of a fair tidings. Looks like this is going to be a good meal eh?
We talk; not about the stock market, even though we can. Instead, you explain to me that it is proportions of the coconut milk, the basil and the lemon-grass that make all the difference between a regular and that perfect Thai green curry. I neck down a shot of the Sambuca. We remind each other of our past explorations of anise flavoured drinks. I preferred the Ouzo, I tell you, but gulp down another shot of the Sambuca anyway.
We discuss the subtle differences between the impressionist style of Monet as opposed to that of Van Gogh. Meanwhile, you pull out your guitar and begin to strum. I let my fingers fiddle with the pearls girdling my neck while I look upon the Thames, hardly a moon river in mid day, and sing along.
"Two drifters off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see...
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting round the bend, my Huckleberry Friend"
A few people applaud and we acknowledge their kindness with a grateful nod. It is time for the main course already.
I am unable to resist a craving for the Stuffed Pasta Shells, pregnant with sumptuous mozzarella, pureed veggies and minced meat, served with aromatic salad, which I believe is a jealously guarded recipe belonging to the northern Italy. You, on the other hand, are ready to move past Italy from Greece, into France and are in mood for some Spinach and Pancetta Quiche. It is only fair Darling, that we offer our due respects to el España, and order Sangria for accompaniment. I choose white wine as base, while you clearly have a preference for the varieties of red.
You wonder whether you should end with a Tiramisu. You never quite got over the taste of brandy in chocolate now, did you? I sigh and declare, that as always, it is only going to be a baked New York Cheese Cake, from across the seas, for me. Ambrosia, for afters. We toast our Sangria, to the Good Life.
It's going to be a date, Darling, with the finer things in life.
