The first time is not how I imagine it.
There are the manic butterflies, flitting around my
insides. I wonder how we’ll engage: Will the conversation be easy? Will
it be worth the one-hour drive from Washington, D.C., to Baltimore? Will
we have anything to talk about besides the uncommonly warm November
weather?
When I arrive, I realize that the
restaurant I picked, Boccaccio, may not be right for the occasion. The
upholstery on the wooden chairs is too picnic-like, too many
green-and-white stripes in clean symmetry. The valences are more floral
than I expected. Do I really want to eat rigatoni in vodka-cream sauce and grilled veal chops, knowing tonight’s endgame?
-Lucky Peach
