Excuse us, we’ve got something in our eye.
Should you read anything this Father’s Day, let it be John Birdsall’s essay for CHOW — you may or may not start crying. While Birdsall’s father worked as a grocery clerk, his pleasure in life was fine dining, a passion and love he passed on to his son. It’s heartwarming and sad and beautiful and a big ball of all the emotions. Since we can’t do it justice properly, a quick paragraph:
And though he earned the wages of a grocery clerk, there was no bill I ever saw him balk at paying, not at Charlie Trotter’s or Zuni Café or Chez Panisse. Going out with my dad was the experience of feeling tucked in, secure. You knew that for the next two hours the world was no bigger than the table between you, and that anything you wanted—that Austrian Kabinett you had your eye on, a pasta course before the entrees, or cheese before dessert—you were going to get it.
Read it, weep, and then take your dad out for a nice meal. He deserves more than your charcoal-laden red meat, doesn’t he?
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