Dessert for Dinner

Tonight I visited some old friends in Maine. We ended up in a Mexican restaurant called Tortilla Flat. The company was excellent, and so were the margaritas. Which was just as well, because nothing on the dinner menu excited me.

For a vegetarian who's also a pretty fair cook, typical American restaurant menus are a disappointment. Take away the meat, and it's the same four or five things, over and over. If I didn't know how to cook them myself, I might be excited. But not only are they pale imitations of what they ought to be, they rarely add up to what I call a real meal.

I could go into details here. But suffice it to say that I surveyed the menu with apathy. I decided not to fill up on a greasy main course, so that I would have room for dessert, which did look pretty good to me. Flan--yum. And there was an apple thing with caramel sauce on it, too. It was going to be hard to choose between them.

And that's when it hit me. What I really wanted was two desserts. What I'm frequently in the mood for when I dine out is just dessert, but I always end up trying to match my dining partners, course for course. And usually everyone pigs out on the main course, and then starts looking at the time and calling for the check.

So I did it. There's a first time for everything. And this was the first time for me to sit around a table full of people eating steak and quesadillas and pulled pork, happily polishing off pie and flan and whipped cream. There was no one to scold me, or even make jokes about it. That's what's nice about this particular group of friends. They're not into guilt or sarcasm or one-upsmanship. Just doing their own thing, and letting others do theirs.

I'm not going to make a habit out of it. But just once in my life, it was nice to have dessert for dinner.

The Perfect Margarita

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo, and, coincidentally, the Cherry Blossom Festival. Faithful readers of this blog are aware that there was not a Mexican theme to the Festival. I had worked diligently all day, and had a pleasant time at the gathering under the cherry trees, but all that did not add up to celebrating Cinco de Mayo.

Cinco de Mayo is a holiday which is just surfacing here in New England. Not too many Mexicans in the area, so it's basically just an excuse to party. (Dear reader, please don't misunderstand me. "Just an excuse to party" is a plenty good enough excuse!)

Two years ago, the May meeting of my poetry group happened to fall on Cinco de Mayo, and I happened to be hosting. We usually have a light supper, followed by reading and critiquing the poems each member of the group has brought. I decided to have a Mexican theme for this particular evening.

I made guacamole, served it with chili-lime chips, an entrée which is lost to memory, an apple cake, and a pitcher of margaritas. To my surprise, the rather demure poets had a couple or three margaritas apiece. We nearly didn't get to the poetry! The following year, it was someone else's turn to host the May meeting, but when I suggested a repeat of the previous year, the vote was unanimous. This year, however, we met at Fleming's house on May 3rd for an excellent pasta puttanesca and some equally fine poetry. But no margaritas.

Geri came along with me to the Cherry Blossom Festival. After two glasses of champagne punch, however, she chose a cup of tea at my place over a margarita. It was looking as though Cinco de Mayo was going to pass unnoticed on Salem Street this year. I decided I was being greedy; drove her home and walked the dog.

And whom should I meet on the street but neighbor George, out for a newspaper. He suggested La Dolce Notte for coffee...it was a beautiful night...so off we went. Once we got down to Worthington Street, however, the lure of the club district was too strong. Before I knew it, I was watching some babe trying to stay on the mechanical bull at the Salty Dog Saloon--and drinking margaritas out of a plastic cup.

When it comes to margaritas, I'm a bit of a purist. Tequila, Triple Sec, and FRESH LIME JUICE, people! A margarita doesn't have to have ice. It's a cocktail, which by definition means it's shaken with ice, and then poured into a glass. And if you're not going to salt the rim, you should probably be drinking something else.

Before we got to the Salty Dog, we had hit the Pour House, where the margaritas were served in actual glasses made of glass, and with salt on the rim. On the down side, the glasses were pilsner glasses (hello! rim too small!), and collins mix was substituted for the lime juice. Typical for your average bar these days. But--to this licensed bartender anyway--so...pedestrian.