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Sep. 8th, 2001
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Sep. 8th, 2001 09:50 pmI won't dance, merci beaucoup
I know that music leads the way to romance,
So if I hold you in my arms I won't dance
--Frank Sinatra
I am stuffed. And, perhaps, mildly in lust.
It started as a very quiet Saturday, one of the very few I've had lately between biz travel and adventure travel. I worked a very little bit in the morning, did some furniture window shopping, got groceries, but mostly I read all afternoon. I finished The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk (a book I had been meaning to read for a while, and I was completely, utterly impressed. Read it, if you haven't.) I decided I had better work some more, I'm trying to do some work on a side project so I won't have any more side-projects. Did some work, saved it here and there, but I had this bizzare power spike that shut down all the electricity for about five seconds. No storms, no rain, just a short brownout. Lost about a half-hour work, but just enough to piss me off to want to go out to eat instead of nibbling stuff here and there, which had been my lazy goal for the evening.
I wandered aimlessly through North Atlanta for a while, window open, radio playing, enjoying the beauty of the late summer night. My skin is already crawling with the feel of fall and winter's approach, my least favorite seasons.
I found myself outside of a restaurant I had been meaning to try -- "10 Degrees South", which is a slightly mischarted South African restaurant. My grandmother's family was South African in a twisted lineage of multi-national émigrés and citizenship-bending brought about by various natural disasters and several wars.
Very, very, very good food! I had escargot in a light garlic butter sauce, but not the usual butter/garlic overload. The sauce complimented the subtle (but appropriately present) taste of the huge chunks of snailmeat, instead of nuking it out of existence. The ostrich fillet I had was medium rare, nicely charbroiled with a delicate barbecue sauce, along with a slightly seasoned mound of sweet potatoes. This place was good (and expensive).
In keeping with my recent vodka sampling, I had a Grey Goose martini. This was also good -- surprising for a vodka made in France (the French are in their element with wine, but vodka? Who knew?)
I sat at the bar and ordered, and there was a lovely South African bartender/server. She was tall and blonde and blue-eyed, which is about 180 degrees from my normal tastes of petite, dark-eyed brunette...but still. She was very attractive, in a wonderful real world girl next-door genre. Her accent was captivating. We talked of Africa and America and Australia, but we didn't talk too much. I was enjoying the food and the view and the sounds, and was just plain happy to be emotionally aroused again by a pretty face.
As I type this, my MP3 player is randomly playing tunes that are frightening in their appropriateness (The aforequoted Sinatra, followed by "Jane Child - I Don't Want to Fall in Love", followed by "Indigo Swing - She Dreams of Me").
This is one place I will revisit, for the total experience.
I know that music leads the way to romance,
So if I hold you in my arms I won't dance
--Frank Sinatra
I am stuffed. And, perhaps, mildly in lust.
It started as a very quiet Saturday, one of the very few I've had lately between biz travel and adventure travel. I worked a very little bit in the morning, did some furniture window shopping, got groceries, but mostly I read all afternoon. I finished The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk (a book I had been meaning to read for a while, and I was completely, utterly impressed. Read it, if you haven't.) I decided I had better work some more, I'm trying to do some work on a side project so I won't have any more side-projects. Did some work, saved it here and there, but I had this bizzare power spike that shut down all the electricity for about five seconds. No storms, no rain, just a short brownout. Lost about a half-hour work, but just enough to piss me off to want to go out to eat instead of nibbling stuff here and there, which had been my lazy goal for the evening.
I wandered aimlessly through North Atlanta for a while, window open, radio playing, enjoying the beauty of the late summer night. My skin is already crawling with the feel of fall and winter's approach, my least favorite seasons.
I found myself outside of a restaurant I had been meaning to try -- "10 Degrees South", which is a slightly mischarted South African restaurant. My grandmother's family was South African in a twisted lineage of multi-national émigrés and citizenship-bending brought about by various natural disasters and several wars.
Very, very, very good food! I had escargot in a light garlic butter sauce, but not the usual butter/garlic overload. The sauce complimented the subtle (but appropriately present) taste of the huge chunks of snailmeat, instead of nuking it out of existence. The ostrich fillet I had was medium rare, nicely charbroiled with a delicate barbecue sauce, along with a slightly seasoned mound of sweet potatoes. This place was good (and expensive).
In keeping with my recent vodka sampling, I had a Grey Goose martini. This was also good -- surprising for a vodka made in France (the French are in their element with wine, but vodka? Who knew?)
I sat at the bar and ordered, and there was a lovely South African bartender/server. She was tall and blonde and blue-eyed, which is about 180 degrees from my normal tastes of petite, dark-eyed brunette...but still. She was very attractive, in a wonderful real world girl next-door genre. Her accent was captivating. We talked of Africa and America and Australia, but we didn't talk too much. I was enjoying the food and the view and the sounds, and was just plain happy to be emotionally aroused again by a pretty face.
As I type this, my MP3 player is randomly playing tunes that are frightening in their appropriateness (The aforequoted Sinatra, followed by "Jane Child - I Don't Want to Fall in Love", followed by "Indigo Swing - She Dreams of Me").
This is one place I will revisit, for the total experience.
