To continue the analogy of my Prune employment ending like a bad relationship, I am now happily to the point where I’ve pretty much forgotten we ever had sex.

I went last night with Tamara, Nicole, Victoria and Peter. That’s the most people I’ve ever gotten to eat with there, meaning we could try all kinds of things: first and foremost, the cold lobster and the Dover sole, which is, to quote Rich the bartender, “fish candy” and costs something insane like $22 per pound from the purveyor. In a truly generous move, a big freakin’ chunk of it was on the menu for $30. Also, lamb brochette with grilled lemon and little packets of feta wrapped in grape leaves and grilled, hanger steak with chipotle butter and lime, and those fucking fantastic sweetbreads. Oh, and these crazy shrimp toast things and two plates of tomatoes drizzled with butter. Pretty soon we were just reaching all across each other, spritzing lemon, licking plates, slurping little lobster legs…

By the time Gabrielle came over to talk to us, I had given up using utensils (Jersey sweet corn was one of our side dishes) and was totally covered in butter, which I like to think is a fine compliment to a chef. I hope so, because I couldn’t really muster anything chatty to say to her, or really get too excited about her new baby. I can now eat without feeling little pangs of regret, and pay attention to my friends instead of all of the staff. I’m just a regular customer. Doesn’t sound glamorous, but it makes for a much better meal.

Also, it helps that I’ve moved on to a more intriguing cooking scheme that involves Tamara, chicken-fried steak and apricot jam. More details later…