My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [120]
What Wikipedia fails to mention is exactly how delectable puffer fish tastes with the restaurant’s homemade tartar sauce—any risk incurred is totally worth it.
We follow up with enormous plates of creamy lobster salad, resplendent with chunks of meat as big as my thumb. Everything’s beyond fresh—the bed of lush green lettuce appears to have been picked this morning, probably right after they hauled in the lobster pots. The salad’s so huge I only make my way through about a third of it. I feel like I’ve officially satisfied any lobster craving I might have for the year with this meal.
There’s nothing gourmet or exotic about my salad. There are no bacon lardons or Hawaiian gindai or yuzu jelly; there’s just mayo and celery and salt and pepper, served with a plastic package of saltines. But despite the simplicity of the presentation and preparation, it’s perfect.
After we went to Moto, we saw Anthony Bourdain feature it on No Reservations. He was just as impressed with Chef Cantu’s food as we were. Yet in the next segment, he was writhing in ecstasy at some grotty old smoked fish served in a paper bag (and eaten in a car) out by the Ship and Sanitary Canal on Chicago’s south side. I figured if Bourdain could appreciate the essence of whatever he was having, despite the circumstances of where it was served or the simplicity of ingredients, then who was I to feel any differently?
That’s why we ended up here, sitting right next to the highway, at a rickety outdoor picnic table, drinking from a paper cup. Yet I couldn’t be more enthralled with the whole meal if it had come with linen napkins, a tuxedo-clad maître d’, and rows of silverware lining each side of my Wedgwood plate.
When we finally push our bloated bellies away from the table, we’re presented with a three-figure check for our casual lunch. Thus I learn my most important lesson to date—when ordering lobster, always ask market price first.
After we finish exploring the farthermost tip of the island, we return to East Hampton to stroll through the picturesque downtown. I’d like to get a paperback to satisfy my tub-based reading needs, and Fletch wants some footwear. We run his errand first, which prompts my teasing him in the “You know how I know you’re gay? You bought deck shoes at Coach!” variety for a solid twenty minutes.
About halfway down the main drag, we run across the most adorable independent bookseller. The shop is all wooden and warm with big display windows, and it looks like the kind of place where I’d get lost for hours. I’m delighted to see how crowded the store is, too. The staff rushes around with a sense of urgency, moving shelves here and there, making room for all the shoppers, and the whole scene feels chaotically comfortable. I finally select a book234 and head to the cashier.
“I’m sorry,” a harried young girl behind the counter tells me. “The registers are closed for the next fifteen minutes.”
“Oh . . . okay,” I say, before realizing it’s kind of weird to have a packed store that isn’t taking advantage of the captive customers. “Wait, is something going on?”
“Yes!” the girl gushes. “Howard Dean’s going to be here in five minutes to discuss his book on health-care reform!”
I can feel my eyes bulge out of my head, and I turn to look at Fletch, standing in the middle of the Howard Dean crowd, thumbing through a gun magazine, his Ronald Reagan shirt drawing icy glares from all of those around him. He might as well have been erecting a cross in a public classroom or taking a leak on the Roe versus Wade case brief.
“Drop the magazine, we have to go!” I hiss.
“What, why?” he asks.
“Because we’re accidentally committing a hate crime!” I swat the magazine out of his hands and drag him out of the store by the wrist. “Move, move, move!” I hustle him out onto the sidewalk like I’m Jack Bauer, and I’m trying to keep his dumb ass from getting exploded. Once out,