The Gipsy Fish
I’ve written about the Gipsy Fish before, but herewith another visit. I go very often, with whoever is the companion on my walk. It is just far enough from our house that I can call the way there and back an adequate exercise outing without having been overtaxed. So that establishment has become the only restaurant—in any city I have lived in—at which I have become a “regular.”
When we get there for lunch, it is always early, since most locals like to have lunch around three, while I stay closer to my American practices. So there is no problem getting the same table next to an open expanse, overlooking a busy corner—that of Rodin and Holbein. (The streets in this area have the name of artists; I’ve given up on composing dialogues of those that meet at intersections.)
Being a regular has its modest privileges. Before I sit down—not a trivial effort, given the state of my knees, one of the helpers puts a cushion on my chair—the unsolicited result of a comment made quite some time ago that for my unpadded behind the chairs were pretty hard.
Now what happens next is pretty crucial. Fairly soon, a well-made martini appears. Patrik, a companion of mine before he returned to his Belgian roots, had taught them how, with my favored proportions of four (gin) to one (vermouth), making Gipsy Fish one of the rarer places here where you can get a real martini. (I’m not addicted to them; though with one a day, that’s more than I’ve tended to have in the past.)
But of course, we’re at a restaurant, one specializing in sea food. They offer a zillion dishes, but I stick to very few of them. I’m neither a gourmand nor a gourmet, so I mostly limit myself to about one of three of that multitude. Call me unadventurous. I don’t mind; it’s true.
I’ve been reading depressing stories—in my book (see above) or about Trumpland and about Israel. They deserve responses, but right now I’m not up to tackling that. Maybe later, maybe never.