“There’s a few phases in baseball. There’s the zero-to-three phase, when you’re still a semi-rookie; and then three-to-six, where you’re just kind of establishing yourself; and then six-to-10, where you’re going from semi-veteran to veteran. Ten and beyond, you’re pretty much a lock. I’m still in that I-try-to-keep-my-mouth-shut-and-just-do-my-job phase. That works out fine for me, because that’s kind of my personality.”
There is a couple sitting near us in the dining room of Local 127. I assume they are married as they are eating alone, and in complete silence. Normally, I take this to mean years of disappointment cemented by unmet expectations, but in this case the usual aura of disillusionment is replaced by an in
I’ve just poured a glass of white wine for a friend. I told him what it was as I served it—perhaps a tactical error. It is a German riesling labeled “Trocken,” a classification that means it is so dry it can make your mouth feel like it’s a quart low. It’s an extraordinary wine, with fine balance and beautiful aroma. So now he sniffs. He swirls. He sniffs again. He takes a sip. Hmmm…he took his time, so maybe we’re on the same page. Wrong.
Crêpes are the corn dog of France. I’m serious. Head south from Paris and there are these little roadside stands where a sweaty, middle-aged guy in a “Pas De Jeune Filles De Belgique” (No Belgian Chicks) muscle shirt rolls up a 40 centimeter (16-inch) crêpe with no-telling-what-kind of savory filling inside for you.