I was emailing with my friend Travis about Top Chef. I invited him to join my merry circle of watchers (which may, this week, include someone besides myself) but he declined, saying:
I'm afraid watching Top Chef with you would be stressful, like someone makes a comment and you're like "pipe down, I'm working!"
To which I retorted:
Ouch! you just earned a vindictive shout-out on my blog. But I guess it's true.
But anyway. Top Chef. I had this horrific experience on friday night. I was out with Dorothy and Kate for dinner at the Good Fork in Red Hook. Eh, it was okay. We had 9:30 reservations. Arriving at 9:30, we were told that it would be about 20 minutes and were directed across the street to a wine bar, where we each had a glass of wine. We had just come from the Brooklyn Inn where I'd had a whiskey and gingerale.
So anyway, we ordered at 10 or so and didn't get a scrap of food (including a salad!) until 11. At which point yours truly was at exit 67 on the Boozy highway. At some point in the meal, I noticed a beefy neck mere feet from our table. Suddenly, the (bald) man swiveled his head around...was it...could it be....Howie?! Long-standing target of my web vitriol? I've often sweated thinking of what it would be like to ever run into one of the top chef contestants (part of this nightmare, of course, is the dream that anyone reads it....especially Tom.). I hissed to Dorothy:
It's Howie! It's Howie and he's going to kill me.
But, he merely went back to his meal. Was it him? Probably not. Was it frightening? Yes.