Thursday, February 23, 2006


Fred and I went to a great little restaurant, Tresor (“Treasure” – which I learned from Estée Lauder, not French classes, they are going very slowly). We sat next to Boxing Helena. I swear. The woman could not do anything for herself. Her companion dressed her steak tartare with sauces, lightly salted it, and added just a dash of pepper. He then, using her utensils, massaged it into a delicate little ball for her sweet little mouth. I was waiting for him to feed her, luckily his hands got distracted giving her a thigh massage (okay, so she had thighs; but, you’d never know that she had arms by the way he prepared her food for her). The only thing sicker than watching strangers assault raw hamburger meat is watching them play out the Kama Sutra at a table within spitting distance. My attention was soon diverted from the love birds when I was presented with the dessert menu. I had a tarte tatin avec glace à la vanille, aka apple pie à la mode. I was annoyed, but not that annoyed.

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