David went to Gordon Ramsey's restaurant at the London Hotel last night. We are Gordon fans and watch his show the F-Word on the BBC every week. (We especially love Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares - but it hasn't been running of late.) I did not go out to eat. I stayed home with our sleeping children. It was a business dinner. He pretended to grumble about it for my benefit, something I appreciate immensely. He wore a suit jacket and ate an appetizer of foie gras. I wore sweats and ate popcorn. He killed a couple bottles of expensive (and marked up) Australian wine and dished with Madonnna's publicist. All in a days work.
While David was half way through his dinner, both of our girls woke up crying here at home. Usually, I would grab one and David would take the other - not this time. Edie demanded to be breastfed and Lucy kept screaming "Edie down" and cried hysterically. If a stranger had walked past our apartment, they would have thought we were being butchered (as this is NYC, no one paid us much mind.) I held them both, one in each arm, until they fell back asleep - about an hour or so later. By the time my left arm went dead, David had downed the venison and was diving into the "Valronha Chocolate Fondant with Milk Ice Cream". Madonna's publicist probably said several witty things by that point (about Angelina Jolie or Anna Nicole Smith) and everyone was probably feeling a little warmer for having drunk the good wine. By midnight he came home and found both his children draped over me like harpooned whales.
Good for him. I don't begrudge him a wonderful dinner out - he deserves it and he was a good boy - he came home with details about the tastes, smells and experience. He ordered the things I suggested. It was like we were there together. He enjoyed the food a lot, the service was decent and he had some rich analysis, but there was one thing...He recognized the maitre'd from the TV show and that was the most fun part of his evening.
No comments:
Post a Comment