March 27, 2011
Fellow canapé server
I confess without an ounce of shame, I am a professional canapé-eater.
With most events in the late afternoon, you don't have time to go home for dinner, so arriving at the place and being freely showered with various alcohols only serves to make you end up promising to give away jackets left and right as if they were business cards (sorry, not possible). In order to avoid disasters and especially because I am a very-very good eater, I usually pounce on the canapés, to the embarrassment of my companions, as if there were no tomorrow. However, last week I found someone with the same shameless eagerness as me, someone whose companion confessed to me that he had refused to eat his usual food at home because, in some inexplicable way, he knew he was going to a place where he could beg to his heart's content.
With most events in the late afternoon, you don't have time to go home for dinner, so arriving at the place and being freely showered with various alcohols only serves to make you end up promising to give away jackets left and right as if they were business cards (sorry, not possible). In order to avoid disasters and especially because I am a very-very good eater, I usually pounce on the canapés, to the embarrassment of my companions, as if there were no tomorrow. However, last week I found someone with the same shameless eagerness as me, someone whose companion confessed to me that he had refused to eat his usual food at home because, in some inexplicable way, he knew he was going to a place where he could beg to his heart's content.
His look of concentration is only comparable to that of samurais before entering combat. Between him and me, we finished off an entire army of ham sandwiches.