hot hot heat

a spontaneous dinner tonight with leila saw us huddled at the end of a marble bar table at Otto, which is to Mario Batali what their current Target line is to Proenza Schouler. the bellinis were reliably delicious, the white anchovy-scallion-crouton antipasto was oily and perfect, and the bartender... the bartender looked a leetle beet familiar.

after much hard staring and wracking of brains, we realized that the affable balding guy with the pinchable cheeks and easy manner was, holy crap, Bill Buford, the author of far and away my favorite book of the last year, Heat, in which the author gives up his day job as the fiction editor at the New Yorker in order to follow the trail that made Mario (who tends to be referred to in the media as "falstaffian," but who i think is now veering dangerously close to "myocardially infarcted") into the Molto version thereof.

here is how leila and i reacted to Bill Buford behind the bar: "oh my fucking god."
leila: "i wonder if he will sign my boobs."
helen: "i love him. i am willing to marry him right at this very moment."

we considered switching over to sit in the section for which he was tending bar, so that we could make him fall in love with us and tell us secrets that weren't in the book. also, so we could tell people that the former fiction editor of the New Yorker had poured our quartino. and maybe so he could sign our boobs.

we didn't, though. we just stared, and drank our bellinis, and were happy.


James said...

There's a type in your post, twice you write "boobs" when you must mean "books." Oops!

James said...

And of course there's a typo in my comment. Just shows how easy it is!

helen said...

no, james. that's not a typo.

Xop said...

not only do you remind me to come look, but you also do it at just the right time!


James said...

I'm still confused. Is there a book called "boobs"?

James said...

if so, I'm buying it!