Cover it up with a pomegranate margarita Big Gulp.
See that lovely frozen pinkness in the baby blue cup? Apropos, no?
TFin is much more civilized. He chose a Perfect Manhattan, courtesy of the tenders de bar at Chez Fon Fon.
To celebrate the birth of LSis and her little baby sex change, I ordered baked mussels.
So garlicky and crunchy, and just exquisitely cooked. I was worried those tiny slimers would go rubbery under the heat, but they were perfection. And I only burned my arm on the dish twice.
Then the salmon with a field pea relish and a sauce I'd have licked off the plate if I didn't have scruples. Or thought TFin wouldn't have elbowed me in the ribs. The salmon was too salty, but otherwise this was just what the summer ordered. Frank Stitt knows what to do with a pea, yes he does.
LSis had the croque madame, a griddled ham and cheese sandwich with an oozing fried egg and a mound of pommes frites. I had a crisis of focus, apparently.
For dessert, the lemon meringue, which the baby Jesus took a break from moderating the crisis in the Middle East to bring to me.
That lemon center is so divinely rich, and the meringue was thick and sticky and charred and the whole thing was, well, deadly probably.
But my arteries didn't mind. They were busy contending with this,
which I could (and did) eat by the pound. Truly. I was all, "Garçon! More butter buckets, s'il vous plaît!"
And now I am off to enjoy this stunning weekend, full of sweating and gasping for breath in the oppressive, hellish, I'm-taking-it-personally heat. If I don't survive, someone make sure J learns that linoleum isn't life-threatening. Godspeed.