...at the very least, a match made in our dreams.
As I was chatting with my dear friend Laurin about food and film (!), we mentioned our respective culinary crushes: I was yammering on about the dish in my previous post, and she was, well, discussing Eric Ripert in an informed way. I effused that I had used the same word -- "wit" -- as a New York Times food writer to describe Grant Achatz, and that whether or not I was making mountains out of molehills, I was going to take that to be providential.
She then gave me a very sweet and sincere compliment and hinted at maybe, MAYBE, getting a shout-out on PFB. So here's a toast to the entirely fictional but wholly ideal marriage of Laurin to Eric Ripert. Perhaps they will honeymoon in the South of France, as Ripert was born in Antibes and Laurin spent a summer in Nice. Quite obviously, the stars have aligned over their union, since Laurin is a pescetarian and fish is precisely Ripert's specialty.
Here's to decade upon decade of pseudo-connubial bliss...