Yesterday, Alice and I went to a Boxing Day party given by family friends. I also call this get-together the “Manhattan Project” because my friend Billy mixes drinks best measured in megatons.
My friend Pete always walks to the party so he can have two whiskey cocktails (three, and he risks passing out in the snow on the way home). I had one last night and still woke up a bit leather-brained.
As we were leaving the party, I noticed there were still shrimp on the buffet. Somehow, I resisted the urge to stuff them in my pocket, also known as my mouth.
I don’t think I had my first piece of shrimp until I was out of high school. Shrimp still strikes me as worldly, gourmet, and decadent, which are some of the premier attributes of fanciness.
Whenever I see a platter of shrimp at a party, I always think the same thing: they should put that away or everybody is going to eat it.