I Could Use Another Doughnut

Last night, my friend Peter and I went to eat sushi in Little Italy. The meal was good, if a bit predictable. The problem with sushi in this town is that unless you're able to spend some REAL money, basically, everything is the same. (I order the same five or six things, which is both the problem with finding new and interesting sushi, and the reason I can rightly say that this: some highlights appear here and there--the cut, the sweetness of the fish, the temperature of the rice--but overall it's the same experience. The same is true for most any food, now that I think about it.) I always had good sushi at Hatsuhana, where Cicely liked to go. They loved her there.

On our way across town, I stopped at Balthazar and forced Peter to partake of Pistachio Doughnuts with me. They were, of course, fantastic. Peter felt that the pistachio topping was less successful, than, say, pistachios throughout would have been. I told him that the topping was more about texture. He said that, for him, the pistachio was more about aftertaste. As he said this, I thought about the subtle ways that unbridled joy can creep into your life. That we could spend half a minute on the street corner, discussing the minutiae of Balthazar's Pistachio Doughnut--you have to make note of the moments when they happen.

We saw the French film "Roman de Gare" at the Angelika theater, a place I try not to go. On a Tuesday night, however, it was quiet and no celebrities were there, which was both a bonus and a disappointment. The film is beautiful, creepy, deeply emotional and quite thrilling. The plot centers around a famous author and her ghostwriter--one or both of which may or may not be murderers--and the woman whom the ghostwriter picks up in a gas station. The woman asks the ghostwriter to pretend to be her fiance, for an evening, in order to please her family. Plus, there are magic tricks--Peter emailed this morning to say: "i loved loved loved it when he was tearing up the sports section."--some romance, and the divine Fanny Ardent, who, for me, and I presume for most everybody, can do no wrong.

On the train ride home, I read more of Joan Didion's "After Henry," a book of her collected essays. Something's wrong with me lately. I know that not because I sleep less or more, or eat less or more, or care about the world less or more. I know this because I am reading Didion. Believe it or not, she's security for me. I'm not sure what it is quite yet, what it is that's wrong with me. But the essays are soothing it. It may be gone by tomorrow.

On our walk from Balthazar to the movie theater, I took this picture of Peter standing in a huge St. Anthony shrine. Doesn't he look skinny? He could use another pistachio doughnut. So could I.