Thanks to K-for her sweet comment. I drive past Berryhole on my way to work twice a week and remember fondly our old feasts which involved copiously amounts of garlic, improvised tunes accompanied by unknown chords strummed on S's school guitar, and silly stories about our super sexy maintenance men Jeff and Cid along with an errant weasel.
Today I’m recovering from last night’s repast at what is arguably the nicest “foodie” restaurant in the greater “metro” area. I’d been scoping out the online menu for well over a year, long before I moved back here, actually. And so last night S- and I went to ostensibly order appetizers and drinks and check out the social scene. However, upon surveying the daily menu, S-fell for the whitefish special, and I turned my eager eyes to the vegetarian options on the regular menu (even though I had memorized them all months before). I decided that I would order the lighter of the entrees, a sweet potato “taco” with honey, cilantro, and winsintigo (Wisconsin) parmesan and cheddar served on a smoked tomato cream sauce. My rationale was then I could order dessert, without being as full or feeling as guilty as indulging in piles of cheese (like the chesse fondue or the Bolivian Mac and Cheese). Oh, and how could I forget the wine? I started with a taste of the Menage a Trois white (very nice, if a tad too sweet), and then graduated to a La Recougne Bordeux (one of the best wines I’ve had in ages. Lush. French. Yumm.)
So my quite large taco came, plated very architecturally. I ate one half and enjoyed the mix of flavors. I forgot I was eating sweet potato (though I do love them in all preparations). S’s whitefish was similarly displayed with a vertical height and diagonal display, on a bed of mashed potatoes, and a plate sprinkled with roasted carrots and olives. She very much enjoyed her meal.
I then selected creme brulee as my dessert since I haven’t had any in ages, and it sounded SO good. I also ordered a french press pot of coffee. My dessert was wonderful--the creme brulee exhibited the correct balance of supple custard to perfectly brittle crust, that wonderful yin yang that makes the dessert the marvel it is. They must have a helluva torch in their kitchen to make such a perfect crust. The coffee was rich and smooth. I didn’t finish my dessert either, as I could sense I was slipping into the dangerous arena of overfullness...
But indeed, it was too late. By the time I arrived home, my poor tummy was feeling stretched and unhappy. I sat up for hours, watching *Sex and the City* (a very touching episode in which Carrie sees Big again and he’s read her book), scoping out warmer running gear online, and waiting for my indigestion to subside. I finally gave up and fell asleep propped up on pillows, only to awaken an hour later to a kinked neck and upper back.
This morning I was crabby, thinking of how this scrumptious meal, and the last phenomenal one I ate this summer in Chicago (Cafe Spiaggia, where I dined on papparadella with zucchini, mint, and ricotta, multiple glasses of wine, and some chocolatey dessert) made me feel so awful afterwards. I felt/feel much the way I do after imbibing that one extra glass of alcohol on occasion and waking to cotton head and rumbling stomach the next day: it’s simply not worth it. I also realize how healthfully I must eat on a daily basis, how little richness of cream and fat and all those seemingly addictively delicious substances pass through my system, when one indulgent meal can so throw off my balance.