A brief mention in a post three weeks ago that I had been to Hidden Kitchen garnered ten or so hungry emails:
How was it?The panty-throwing reaction prompted me to write about it for Gridskipper. Not only about the food (here), but also the chefs' favorite places to shop around the city (here).
Can you get me in?
Oh my oh my oh my god! (etc.)
There were more undies in my in-box this morning, and a whole pile of them waiting on the electronic doorstep of Hidden Kitchen.
And every wet knicker reminds me of one of the cardinal rules of dating: RUN AWAY.
When I moved out of my marriage bed and into a shared apartment, my roommate Kate had a bookshelf stacked with (plenty of high-quality literature and some) classic dating tomes. And so I spent those first nights, when I wasn't hyper-ventilating, turning the pages of He's Just Not That Into You.
This of course brought on more hyper-ventilating.
Surely, I thought to myself, I have more to offer than "not answering the phone."
"Utter rubbish," declared Catherine, who read the book as soon as I'd finished it. Along with Kate, we decided that while some girls might need gimmicks - hiding themselves and cultivating mystery - we were interesting enough to be exempt from the rules.
Months later I sat across from a man who told me "Men like to hunt."
He then advised me to be "more like a gazelle."
I stopped inviting him to free concerts after that.
Who among you will wager on whether he's booked at Hidden Kitchen?