A few stages left, and the most boring TdF I can remember watching is winding down, fitting that the Brits have got it salted away in first and second place. I miss the days of the Postal Express freight train, and the Wild West years that followed . . . . Maybe next year Tejay will take on Froome and we’ll have an American on the podium again.
As for food . . . we’re ripping through the summer cornucopia, stonefruit in every direction, grouper, wild shrimp, coon stripe shrimp, sand dabs, cranberry bean agnolotti, bumblebee bean ragout, melon with nam pla and coconut clouds, on and on. I’m not saying it’s Steve Jobs’ parents’ garage circa 1975 but there are some very cool ideas and flavors bouncing around in our kitchen. And I bet you ten large ones it smells better than Jobs and Woz did in that garage.
Chef D_____ was in for dinner last night on a big table. Ryder worked up a mozzarella panna cotta to line the bottom of this big wild glass bowls that look like Snoddys and garnished it with four types of basil flower (opal, lime, fino verde, genovese) and some charred and peeled sun sugar tomatoes that grow next to the basils in our garden. The server drizzled gaspatxo de catalunya over it all tableside.
Bartender says, “Where’d you get that?”
Parrot says, “France. They got millions of ‘em.”
That’s called in media res. I think. Vergil used it. Better than I did. Less name-droppy, too.