My mother, Shannon, and I scurried down Little Clarendon Street, Oxford at around 10:15 at night. We were starving and eager to sit down and talk. My mom had steered us down this road because there are a number of good restaurants to choose from: French, Italian, Tapas, Indian. I peered into each window and chose the least crowded of the bunch – the French one. If left to me, I will always choose the emptiest because I find that the din of busy restaurants these days overwhelms any chance of having a decent conversation. We hadn’t traveled all this way to explore new cuisine. We had come to see my mom.
My birthmother just graduated from The Continuing Education Department at Oxford University, with a focus on regional history. I couldn’t be more proud than to celebrate her continuing achievements, so Shannon and I flew to Oxford to watch her graduation ceremony that evening.
We pushed open the big red door of Café Rouge and walked through the bar into the dining room of the brasserie. The room was big with dark oak floors and tables, burgundy velvet banquettes, and antiqued mirrors which hung from every wall. We waited for a few minutes and then were shown to our table by a disinterested, lanky blonde waiter. He carelessly danced around, making faces at another lanky blonde waiter working the other side of the room. Menus were tossed onto our table, orders taken and we started to catch up.
The Oregon Coast is one of the most beautiful stretches of land I have been privileged enough to spend time exploring. If you are an Oregon native or you are visiting this summer, don't miss some of these great local stops along the way. Have fun!!
Cecilia was a ‘10’ on a scale of one to two. She had unmitigated primal passion. Her sexual appetite was unparalleled and horizontal. It was vertical and diagonal. When I suggested to Cecilia that we spend the Fourth of July in Hawaii, she responded by giving me a fireworks show in the bedroom that went on till daybreak.
We cut through the sprawling, meticulously manicured park amidst the morning haze, humidity and blare of cicadas and car horns. By 11am we had reached the stark wrought iron and glass doors to Grandmother’s towering apartment complex, a node of Shanghai’s stupefying development. We took off our shoes in the narrow halogen lit hallway outside her 12th story apartment and stepped into plastic slippers waiting at the door. The warm smell of an active kitchen beckoned. The dining table was set with teacups and chopsticks. We were asked to take our seats.
I learned to eat the year 