Within minutes, our table was filled with plates of baby lettuce salads with goat cheese, bowls of frites and dozens of oysters. I loved that he didn’t even ask if I was a fan of the slimy aphrodisiacs—because I would slurp them any which way to Friday. Surrounded by food, he looked like he was in heaven.
“Would you call yourself a foodie?” I asked.
“I guess I like food as much as the next guy. Don’t you?”
“Maybe not as much as you. You took pictures of you all sweaty with those noodles in Thailand.”
“Everyone takes pictures of food!”
“I’ve never once in my life taken a snapshot of my entrée.”
“Well, you’re missing out. And we’re missing the aioli!”
He nearly tackled a disinterested waiter and insisted on a side of mayo for dipping. From my face he could tell I had never imagined anyone plunging fries into white whipped creamy sauce like that—everything else in Texas, yes—fried potatoes, crazy.
“I do it the French way,” he declared.