Coins of the Realm: A Confessional

When it comes to food, and especially to dining out, the term "embarrassment of riches" takes on distinctive physical properties. You get fat. You feel bloated, conspicuous, profligate. There are biological consequences to a surfeit of fine dining: the hiatal hernia acts up; the metabolism grinds to a halt; the back pains increase their intensity.

Such are the effects of the past five days. I'm glorying in them. Such marvels! But oh, such consequences.

There's little else to do than offer a litany of my earthly delights. Thus, with an added mea culpa for this double indulgence: On Thursday, hot thin-crust pizza in New York with S.W., G., and baby Neko). On Friday, a massive corned beef and tongue sandwich at Nana's deli in Livingston, NJ. That was lunch. For dinner, a lovely carne asada at Lolita's in Philly.

I'll stop for a breath here. The dinner at Lolita's began with a tamale made with huitalacoche, one of my favorite edible corn fungi. The meal ended with a prickly-pear flavored crème brulée, bright fuschia in color. This was only the start of things. Lunch the next day was at Sazon at 10th and Spring Garden, a friendly Venezuelan restaurant H. and I visited with J., G., and her brother Felipe. They're regulars. Arepas and café con leche were the stars of the hour. And speaking of hours, it was but a scant hour or so later that we met up for drinks and oysters with our friend J. at a remarkably faithful rendition of a French brasserie at 5th and Bainbridge called Coquette. First oysters of the year. And what a revelation: the oysters were served with a shallot vinaigrette that complemented their freshness perfectly. But it didn't end there.

Soon after that we headed to M. and E.'s place around the corner. It was M's 40th birthday, and we'd soon be heading to a party in his honor. But when we arrived at their apartment, we faced a spread of delices from Claudio's market: hot ham, soprasetta, a pair of fine cheeses, a selection of herrings and olives, and several loaves of Sarcone's bread. And then there was the ham. Imagine a fine, light pink ham with a flavor so paradoxical that it might only be described as aggressively delicate. The story goes that when E. first tasted the ham, she cried out, "Dear God, what animal is this ham made from? Unicorns?" E., it should be said, is a poet.

Any litany that has gone on so long as to include unicorns is surely reaching its conclusion, but this one isn't over yet. The party was catered, and the hors-d'oeuvre were themselves remarkable. This was, however, the sole occasion throughout the long weekend that I didn't embarrass myself through gluttony— but I can explain. My gluttony of food was, on this occasion, trumped by my gluttony for books. The party, you see, took place at a bookstore. And the bookstore (Brickbat Books, on 4th and Bainbridge) is owned by PR-G. PR-G's taste in books makes me weak in the knees, so I spent much of the party piling up books to bring home with me. Of course, one can never truly attend a party without a bit of late-night grazing as a nightcap. So when we returned to M. and E.'s apartment that night, I polished off the remainder of the unicorn ham. Please don't judge me.

Sunday might seem to have promised a reasonable return to asceticism, as we spent much of the day driving. But we drove rapidly, breathlessly, back to central PA in time to attend a brunch at our dear colleague J's house. After a bracing pitcher of Bloody Marys, we tucked into a vegetable quiche that beckoned us to welcome in spring; this was complemented by a host of bagels, cream cheese, and smoked salmon. We meandered home well beyond A's bedtime, feeling vague yet content.

This brings us, at last, to yesterday. Yesterday was St. Patrick's, and dear St. Patrick (P1) had us all over to his chateau for corned beef and cabbage. St. Paddy corned the beef himself, and it was a revelation. The beef, and the cabbage, carrots, and potatoes that accompanied it, were perfumed with cloves. No boiled dinner has ever come close to this: normally, "boiled dinner" tastes about as subtle as it sounds. This, of course, is part of its pleasure. But St. Paddy elevated the dish to saintly new heights.

I'm surely going to hell.