In my dream world, I am holed up in thick pajamas, sipping broth and sweating it out in a little wet nest of bed sheets… but the reality was only 36 hours in Paris and I’m getting ready for a reservation that was months in the making. Eating for work. It sounds deluxe and it is, no worries, it still is. I’m not jaded at all, in fact, I find myself quite chuffed at most every turn. But when you can’t taste, smell or breathe, it’s altogether another story.
I ask my cohort if he thinks they’d let me NOT order but instead try a bite of his course each round. He shrugs; coughs. We’re both sick.
I ask if he thinks they’d make me soup, let me sip juice, I for sure shouldn’t order the wine pairings? Or what if I did order and then just take a mouthful of each dish myself? Would chef be offended? We order an über.
Paris has fancy übers. Fanciest I’ve ever seen. Slick cars pull up–audis, bimmers, you name it–and out jumps a well-coiffed Frenchman in a tailored suit. Holding the door, all the pleasantries, free water, newspapers,…