It Was I, I Confess

Oh dear.  The oyster.  Certainly.  Tracing back all the food.  No one can feed two hundred people well.  The place we piled into for the evening had mounds of burgers, and heaps of chicken and gallon vats of dressing for the salad.  I did my best to chat with folks as we were supposed to.  But it was very loud.  The music, unfortunate.  And at an open bar where the revellers feted, I was ordering soda waters with lime in accordance with that determination that January be dry. 

So my friend and I made our retreat.  We proceeded up the “Gaslamp” district.  San Diego has not decided to grace this evocative moniker by installing actual gas lamps. Instead the two streets have a row of electric lights with vaguely vintage bulbous quality.  A friend was keen to find someplace else.  One last place.  We passed a few spots.  I had a vague recollection that up ahead was a place with live jazz, but as one block turned into four it was clear I was mistaken.  We piled into a seafood place that seemed to offer a decent balance between crowds and quiet.

Not the least bit hungry, as I recall.  I nursed a soda water, with lime.  We struck up a conversation with a chatty bar tender.  My friend and he had some good banter about robust reds and about snowboarding accidents.  “Shall we get something to eat?” He offered after a turn.  It was I, I confess, who suggested the oysters. “Three types?  Cool.  Can you do a plate with all three types for us to sample?”  “Certainly.  Two of each.”   Later that night we each had a slice of pepperoni pizza. 

And in the middle of the night, after the second urgent disruption from dreamland I noted that something was notably wrong.   Wretched.  Again.  Again and onward.   A 7:00AM call loomed like a gallows.  And after it was done and the day was before me all I could do was collapse back into bed.  Appointment after appointment surrendered to the forgiveness of the pillow.  With only the greatest of determination was I drawing socks over my feet by 4:30PM.