Monday.
Monday after inventory, no less. It will at least 3a.m. before I get to sleep, and I have 'brunch' with Bernard Sparr at 11 a.m. Monday morning at Cafe Campagne. That's eight hours to get home, undress, watch 'Sex and the City', fall asleep, get up, shower, get dressed, watch more 'Sex and the City' and ride the bus downtownto get to the restaurant. Something's soing to have to give . Perhaps I. will give me a ride downtown! That will save me about forty-five minutes! If I could move a TV into the bathroom I could save time that way, too, but I don't see it in the near future.
After brunch , I'm going to a tasting. This is an 'Independent' kind of wholesaler, one so full of its own virtuosity and preciousness that it has totally forgotten that I was their number one account, and about twenty percent of their revenue for the first year of the business. Now they are embarrassed by this, and of me in general. I, in turn, despise them for this but have myself over a barrel because I have turned my customers on to so many of their wines that I pretty much have to stock them or suffer a loss in sales. So, I'll go to this tasting, where I feel like an outcast in my own backyard ( a backyard that I provided a pool, a cabana, and a fence for, I might add....) and will further be insulted by not being invited out to dinner afterwards. I know that there are two dinners: ona at a small bistro where everyone will be able to properly worship Her Majesty, The Mighty, The Meek, The Ever-So- Modest _____ ____________. See? I can't do it. Can't write her name even in this tiny corner of the world. Sigh. Is there no refuge from her allies? Then, there is a definitely B-List dinner at a place I have eaten at once and did not like. Bad mashed potatoes. What excuse is there for that? None. Absolutely none. I do not go back to restaurants that cannot even fix a plate of potatoes. Can't be trusted. So, dinner's out for me.
Anyway, there ought to be some good stuff on here this week: gossip, tasting notes,etc....
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