Zelia invites me and Alexander to join her and her two kids for dinner. The last time the five of us dined together was in Rio, almost two years ago. Zelia has chosen a local French restaurant, Demarchelier. Every table is filled in this tiny restaurant when we arrive. Fortunately, Zelia dines here often, so even without a reservation, we are seated within a half hour.
As always, it is comfortable and fun. We laugh separately and together. And the food is fabulous. The tracking I had been doing this week will not include tonight’s dinner of bread (only one piece), salad, steak frites, a glass of red wine, and one perfectly prepared tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream for dessert. I’d be ruining the evening if I chose to compute its point value.
I embarrass everyone by asking the waitress to take our picture. I have to fight the kids to get them to agree. My strongest argument is the truth. “Last time we were all together for dinner my face was half-sunburned, your mom thought I looked like a little monster, and I was very heavy.” No one could argue this, so before dessert, we all smile for our waitress.
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