cold chocolate

Sorry we’re a week behind. Ok I’ll stop saying sorry about posts.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, last weekend Crissy and I took a chocolate tour of New York City. Oh, that sounds completely queer and horrible you say? Well, that’s because it was. But it was sort of ok, too.

Mostly I say it was ok because it was a gift to the missus…from me. I got the first clue that it might not be the strongest idea when I called to sign up for the class, and the woman on the phone said, “Listen, this class is a walking tour in January, got it? You sign up, you walk. You don’t wanna walk, you still pay. No refunds.” That caught me off guard.

So I laughed a little too hard and scoffed a little too much and said, “Where I come from, we can take it! I come from Chicago, if you know what I’m talkin’ about! And I’m talkin’ about it being colder than it is here.”

Two months later? It’s pretty cold in this mother. I wouldn’t say it’s jean-freezing cold, but it’s definitely underdressed-for-a-football-game-cold. Particularly when you’re walking around in a plodding tour group for five hours with a gut full of weapons-grade chocolate. By the end of the day, I couldn’t think of the color brown without getting dizzy.

The tour ended with a snowstorm, a mad dash for the restaurant where lunch was being served, and a croque monsieur (eh, ham and cheese, oui?) that was so brittle I hacked my way through it with a steak knife, grunting. The lunch was held at a place called Orsay, which sounded fancy and looked fancy, until the ceiling began bowing (not a joke) from a stomping Bar Mitzvah in the room above us.

On the way out, Crissy spotted a super famous chef by the name of _________, having lunch with his family, which made my gift feel temporarily non-crappy again. Then we went home and took the greatest naps of our lives.

Which should be considered part of the gift, right?

Right?

p.s. I caught this sign in the middle of the tour. Coffee sandwich anyone?