Dear Diary,
I have to admit that when I headed for the James Beard Foundation media awards banquet last Friday evening, I wasn’t sure JB was going to show up. Okay, I knew he’d show up, but I didn’t know he’d decide to come home with me. I don’t want to read too much into this, but I think it means we’re not just a casual fling any more.
Obviously, the adventures we went on last year were as much fun for him as they were for me. I’m sure he had a blast meeting Myron Olson, America’s only certified Master Cheesemaker for Limburger cheese, a man so fiercely devoted to the basic stinky principle of Limburger that, he told me, even though he thought he could re-brand it as something cooler-sounding (you know, like “House-made, Small-batch, Local Sustainable Artisanal Anything-But-Limburger Cheese”), he’d decided not to do that, because “Limburger is what we do, we’ve been doing it a hundred years, we’re gonna stay on Limburger.”
And he would have been in hog-heaven with the Grrls at Grrls’ Meat Camp, who may or may not call themselves feminists (because no one seems to, anymore) but embody a particular mix of idealism, empowerment, attitude, and smarts that the word was supposed to represent. Not that JB was particularly interested in such a thing politically–he just really would have loved getting up to his elbows in fresh ground pork, the way I watched Kate Hill do it, or preachin’ some Meaty Gospel, a thing Kari Underly was born to do.
Surely, having earned this together, we can be forgiven for the celebrating we did this weekend. He would certainly not have wanted me to waste that invitation to Daniel Bouloud’s 20th Anniversary Brunch at Restaurant Daniel yesterday. He would have paced himself much better than I did. He would not have become so fixated on the miniature Beef Tartar served with an eye-dropper-sized egg yolk on top that he would have had to be virtually propelled by a third party past the Mini Croque Madame tray, out of the entry corridor and into the restaurant. He would not have felt he had to choose only two of the four different caviars at the Smoked Fish and Egg Station, or that he had to share his servings of smoked salmon and sable with his companion for fear of not being able to progress to the Charcuterie Station or to pop another Port-glazed Foie Gras Lollipop into his mouth. Unlike me, JB was an 
enormous man with a lusty appetite who didn’t worry about fitting into last year’s crop of cute sundresses. He would not have openly gawked at Martha Stewart whipping out her iPhone to photograph the multi-tiered tower of miniature pastries dominating the room, because she probably would have been a friend to him and not just an Iconic Fictional Personality who troubles one’s dreams with unachievable Connecticut perfectionism. He would for sure have introduced me to Monsieur le Chef Himself, who was graciously working his way around the room shaking hands and accepting adoration for marrying French culinary decadence to clever interpretive modernist cuisine with a brilliance that has eluded many more traditional French restaurateurs.
At the exit, in what can only be described as a “Talk of the Town” moment, we overheard a famous food personality who was just arriving talking to a couple she ran into about who else she was expecting to run into. Not just Anyones, but Anyones who are Anyones. The man in the couple replied, “Well in any case, one doesn’t turn down an invitation to eat caviar at Daniel.”
But of course. One doesn’t. And after such a brunch, it was nearly impossible to think about dinner, and if there was going to be dinner it was going to need to be quite 
spartan and dietetic and full of nutrients. Which is why Mr. Darcy bought me and JB that Bloody Mary on the plane back to Chicago: 50% of our Vitamin C, 30% of our Vitamin A, 3 grams of protein, and only 70 calories. Give or take a little vodka.
But look: JB isn’t just nodding now. I think you can see, he’s smiling.