The only person who loves canapés more than me is my husband. Invite us to your parties! We will bring our own toothpicks! No chip left undipped! Last night in particular, after a long day of moving into our new place, we fortunately had an excuse to leave the sad, barren apartment we are still stuck living in. Like every other night in Paris, we were invited to a ‘cocktail’. And it was straight-up search and destroy. Fetching a glass of champagne at the door, I did the preliminary scope out before the tag team, “2 o’clock, foie gras pinwheels and hummus zucchini cups. 4 o’clock, jambon de parme carving station. Crudités, zero threat. Beware of 12 o’clock! Concorde grapes+unidentifiable white fish=most unfortunate.” But my partner in canape crime lost momentum; his pacing got slowed down by conversation. But I diligently treaded on, swerving through the partygoers to find what else lurked about. “Viens VIIIIIITE!” I jumped up and down, waving my coup de champ’ across the crowd. Jackpot! Thai gambas à la minute in T minus 2 minutes!
Three hours later, the jambon de parme specialist knew my name, where I was born, and had a running count of how many chicken curry crepe triangles I had manhandled. Gourmandise, the fine line of consumption between foodie and fatty, had been crossed. But a few toothpicks of port-macerated prunes and cantaloupe sent us sweetly on our way back to our empty home. I high-fived my hubby on our way out.
To be continued…
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