The other night my brother and I were treated to a fancy, schmancy dinner at Jean Georges by his extremely generous and pretty much spectacular girlfriend. The meal was all sorts of buttery and delicious. I should be not surprised that all of my clothing suddenly appears to be a wee bit tight. This morning I felt all Chris Farley as I wrestled with the buttons on my now uber fitted winter coat. The dinner, which was in celebration of my brother's birth, consisted of eating, drinking and desserting for hours. Let your eyes linger on this vision of beauty that was my chocolate dessert platter.
We consumed this, and two others like it of the caramel and orchard persuasion, along with numerous chocolates, candies, marshmallows...and my mouth just started watering.
After gorging ourselves with wine and fois gras (actually not my thing, but when at JG...), we rolled ourselves back to the apartment where we are staying for the week. The building's front door was open and we all struggled to find a working set of keys when the apartment lock flat out refused entry to all the ones we had. We went through each of the sets that we were given, laughing loudly at our dilemma. How rude! Did the locks change? Are we that drunk? Finally, as we were just starting to get the tiniest bit frustrated, I questioned whether we were even in the right building. Um, no. Turns out we were in the building right next door that conveniently looks exactly the same. It's amazing that no one came out of the apartment after we spent at least a good 5-10 minutes fiddling with the lock and cursing at 11:30 pm. Needless to say, we hauled ass up and out immediately and found our proper home. Apparently, this is a family thing.