petits financiers
Fifth Floor is so incredibly conservative that the investment bankers and their families politely ignored Kat’s amazing pink and purple braids and dreads and the fact that I wore a cocktail gown over my enormous seven-months belly. The hostess, however, brought jackets for the brothers Fitzhardinge, to smarten them up a bit.
“They’re washed after every use,” she said.
The food was fantastic. Heirloom tomato puree and crab meat on avocado for the amuses-bouches; an extraordinary mussel chowder, with fingerling potatos and infused creme fraiche; apricot-stuffed poullarde with shiitake mushrooms and white corn, so rich and savoury yet light; a “tart” made up of stewed nectarines and a disk of delicate almond pastry, topped with creme brulee. All finished off with tiny berry muffins that the waiter called petits financiers.
We did like the idea of enforcing a dress code at Burning Man – everyone visiting the camp having to wear an x, for various values of x:
“A fur hat.”
“A pee funnel.”
“A merkin!”
“A merkin with a pee funnel attached!”
“Washed after every use.”
