Although I could hardly consider myself a foodie and scoff at the term as being of the most degrading decadent behavior in a material society, I will set aside some lines to remark on the squid ink pasta I picked up on a whim last week in the Village. Not the nearby village, unfortunately, but rather what passes for that name-wise in this here city of mine. Freshly made, yes. Nice looking, yes. Cut from a nostalgic machine, surely yes and that was the best part. But when it was cooked, it lost all its allure in taste and was as bland as most conversations I overhear while walking these humorless streets.
If only Arthur Avenue were closer. Or Italy, which would be infinitely better. Why, I'd even take that one and only Italian restaurant in Golders (in London, where I lived for a brief while). Everything does seem so far away sometimes.
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| Black made me blue. |
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