James is not your typical Marine. About my height, medium build, and somewhat shy, he is definitely on the reserved side. I met him at my sister’s birthday party and we’ve been emailing ever since.

Last night, he and his roommate Anis met Emily and me out for dinner. I picked the restaurant, guided only by an obscure online review of the only spot listed which wasn’t a national chain. To my dismay, the dilapidated tiki bar on the deck didn’t offer frozen drinks, and my Malibu pineapple came garnished with a tired slice of lemon and a bone-dry piece of lime. My request for a paper parasol garnered such a look of disdain from our waitress that I gave up and turned my attention to the mildewed, plastic wrapped menu. I had to laugh when James and Anis ordered calamari and shrimp. Given what I had seen already, the seafood at this particular establishment was more likely to come from a plastic bag than any local body of water. Still, I gave the grouper sandwich a try and Emily had the linguine (The waitress suggested chicken scurrs, repeatedly, and when I translated that as chicken skewers, Em decided to go the seafood route too) with mixed shellfish.

Conversation was great—Anis, Emily, and I were bantering around the funny stories like they were pingpong balls. James sat back, listened and laughed at the appropriate moments, and was just generally being hard to read. They kept asking about seeing us again though, so we’ll be going out for sushi and The Bean tonight.

Oh, and the food was AWFUL… Emily’s linguine was probably the best dish, with big scallops, shrimp, and mussels, but my group sandwich tasted like nothing… not a thing! It wasn’t bad, it just literally tasted like air! Even the bread was tasteless! Anis’s calamari, true to form, came in uniform round Os, heavily breaded and likely from Gorton’s. James’s shrimp was good enough to earn a second portion, but we will not be going back there for the food.

One-handed Chef

Slice the bread... drain the capers... cut the smoked salmon... Nicholas is crying, pick him up... rub the steaks with olive oil... shake on some salt... grinding pepper is impossible to do with one hand.

It was 7pm on a Wednesday night and my aunt was visiting from France. The only thing she wanted when she got off the plane was a "big American steak." As I assembled the smoked salmon canapes and chilled the champagne flutes, I let Nicholas dangle his feet from his perch on the countertop. Where was Toui? Spring mix goes in the big silver bowl, vinaigrette needs to be made fresh. Don't forget the bread in the toaster oven, and spread it thickly with the French butter, not that American stuff. Steaks go on the grill pan when it's smoking hot and I seriously regret not changing into a Tshirt. My new blue blouse will smell like Outback forever now.

Arranging salmon prettily is not possible when you've got a 15-month old under one arm, so I slapped it down on the buttered crostadas, threw on some capers, and sent the platter out to the living room. Damn, no lemon, the lime will have to do. Squeeze squeeze... where's the baby? The steaks were ready to be turned, and I could barely see in the tiny kitchen for all the smoke. Hmmm... tonight might be a good one to meet a fireman.