“Not with your fingers, Spangler! That’s all you understand – things you eat with your hands whilst walking down the street.” – Albert Spica, The Cook The Thief His Wife and Her Lover

I like restaurants. I love eating out. There is just something so civilized about preparing to go out, meeting with a dear friend or acquaintances and having discussion while dining.

I am entirely uncomfortable eating outside. I abhor picnics and patio dining. I cannot wolf down pizza on a park bench or loiter on a street corner while scarfing a hot dog “on the go”. I feel a tremendous pity when I see someone crunching away on a chocolate bar or a fetid, greasy hamburger while they stare vacuously into space waiting for the subway. To absent-mindedly fill your face with some generic matter is to me akin to fucking a stranger on a one-night stand. It’s childish and unsatisfying. An immediate pleasure, it’s pointlessness underlined by rapid consumption and subsequent abandonment.

Being able to focus on the matter at hand, the foreplay of small talk that leads down a road to deeper intimacy, comfortability washing over the group, laughter and merriment prodded by a little too much liquor, lover’s limbs secretly caressing under the table, knowing glances. The anticipation of a well prepared meal and the joyous carelessness of losing track of time, all while being served, waited on, is something to be savored.

To swill a rich glass of merlot or cold beer while enjoying the company of others, now that’s living.