“It smells funny in here. Let’s get some food so we can’t smell it anymore.”
“What is this?” “Can’t tell you, just eat it.”
“This is just re-fried beans with a pound of sugar dumped in.”
These are all comments that have been made whilst dining/grocery shopping with Nice Boy. To put it mildly, he is a foodie. I hate that word really, but there’s no better one.
In the time we’ve spent together there have been whole dates revolving around pie; soaking & changing the water on a 14 pound country ham; the smoking of a duck in the middle of a beach. Flat out just absurdly good food.
With Nice Boy I have consumed goat. GOAT. Goat from a tiny little (albeit it, EXTREMELY popular) birrieria on the South side. Did I mention it was GOAT??
We’ve eaten Thai food from a menu that doesn’t exist. Their little foodie group has secret menus all over the damn city. They’re like the Cosa Nostra of ethnic restaurants.
I’ve drunk bitter Ales that smell frighting, but taste delicious.
Duck breast, gnocchi with garlic scapes and crisp green beans have been served to me while a cat sits on my hand and a beagle on my foot.
Assuming I can manage to stave off inevitable weight gain, I’ll continue to love every minute. And until then, I’ll just be giving him what he wants:
“I’m not looking for a woman who cooks. I’m looking for a woman who eats.”