I was hungover come Sunday. I couldn’t remember the last time I had bed-spins or the spits–just before you know you’re going to throw up–but it all came back to me the morning after the East Hampton Authors Night Dinner. I’d had the option of attending any one of the thirty dinners, hosted at private homes. I could only attend one, so it would take some thought. "Alec Baldwin," my girlfriend said. "Wherever he is, you follow. Done and done." But why? Just so I could say I was at a dinner of forty people, and one of them was Alec Baldwin? I don’t know, it seemed a bit disingenuous. I could choose a dinner where I could take advantage of certain networking opportunities, but really? Why? It didn’t seem right. Instead, I realized, I wanted to be at a dinner that intrigued me.
Still, it’s not an easy decision. Ultimately, I scrapped shoulds and went with the dinner where I thought I’d have the most fun: The Flavor Bible: The Essential Guide to Culinary Creativity, Based on the Wisdom of America’s Most Imaginative Chefs. I assumed as we ate we’d be learning about the combinations of food flavors, schooled in why tarragon is the go-to herb when it comes to lobster pot pie. You know, given all the lobster pot pies I’ve made for the radishes. Although we weren’t walked through the science of such flavor profiles, the evening didn’t disappoint.
Phil, Dulce, and I sat at a table with a couple who’d pretended to be married earlier in the night, only to "come out" after a few drinks, when the he of the we mentioned his boyfriend. I was seated beside a winemaker, who commented on Phil’s attire. "How dear it is that you’re wearing a tie."
"Yes," I said placing my hand on Phil’s pink Hamptons tie, "You’ll all be happy to know it’s the only place he has crabs." Then I smiled, downed more wine, and whispered to the winemaker beside me, "That’s what you get for sitting beside an author with DIRTY in the title of her memoir." To which he raised his glass and drank. To the start of an enchanting evening.
"At least I didn’t do anything embarrassing," I told Phil the next morning. "Did I?"
"You mean other than the crab tie comment?"
"That? I wasn’t drunk for that!"
"How about when we were all invited down to the cellar, and you were offered a bucket to pour the excess from your glass–"
"Oh, this I remember."
"And you said to the whole QUIET crowded room–"
"I’ve always prided myself on not being the girl who spits; this is not the occasion to start."
"I’m pretty funny when I drink… You know, in a horrifying way."
"I should drink more."
"Yeah, keep drinking."