It happened Sunday night. Crammed in a tiny, hot, cafe on a busy city street in the middle of San Francisco's China Town we were surrounded by smells and sounds lifting me to another place. We found seats at a packed table and the plates started coming around.
Dialects I couldn't understand were being spoken all around me as I filled my plate and began to eat. Then the loaves of crusty French bread came by. The sweet smell made my mouth water and I could almost feel the crunch of the crust as the platter passed by.
There was laughing, drinking, funny faces, belching, eating, and more eating. Dishes of rice noodles slippery in oyster sauce passed by, meats undetectable yet deliciously spiced, and vegetables so fresh their color was a brilliance not seen anywhere else.
Entire fish displayed on plates with eyes and all. Stacks of spring rolls so delicately and beautifully filled were partnered with spicy peanut sauce. All these and more kept coming and coming.
We sat and ate until we could not eat another bite, in this tiny cafe, surrounded by people we looked nothing like, brought together by platters of food I could not believe I was eating...
And then I woke up. The dreams are coming. The food dreams. They are so real I can smell them and taste them. They are so real I am satisfied when I wake. Diet dreams.
Sweat covered, oddly, I wasn't panic stricken when I woke. I was happy. This dream pretty much represents the perfect meal. One shared with my husband in a unique place. A meal in a tucked away restaurant filled with locals. A meal I'm not quite sure what it is...
This is the point in the diet at which things get difficult. It's time to dig deeper. It's time to focus harder. And it might just be time to allow the dreams to creep in and take me away in my slumber for an occasional late night binge.
No comments:
Post a Comment