Sommer Lovin’, Had Me A Blast
WHEN I ATTEND food tastings, I always bring a notebook and pen. They are props, but they are comforting. If conversation dries up, or there are awkward moments between the often- strange bedfellows attending the feast (excuse me for mixing my metaphors) one can always pick up a pen and pretend to write something, until someone else has taken up the slack and said something mildly interesting. This doesn’t always happen, by the way.
Over a three-hour dinner at Sommer recently, I managed to scribble three vaguely coherent lines, and make
