When a religious person fears she is losing her faith, she probably takes comfort in dreaming about God.
As my appetite continues to come back in fits and starts, on Saturday night I dreamt of my favourite food critic and one of my favourite writers, Adrian A Gill.
I love A A Gill. I love the way he writes. I love how he makes or breaks careers with his reviews. I love how all the top restaurants in London have his picture pinned up in the kitchen by way of warning – be careful if this customer shows up. His passion for words easily surpasses his passion for food. He loathes Greek cooking, and would probably not talk to me at all purely because I now live in Athens. Maybe he’s a complete monster in real life and would kick me into the path of oncoming traffic without a second thought if I dared approach him, but I *love* him.
In the dream we were in some restaurant or other and I had somehow twisted his arm into having lunch with me. Him, a well-heeled journalist who writes for the Times on a salary of £300,000+ about what he ate; me a literary nobody. Having lunch at the same table. It could only happen in a dream.
Seeing as I was dining with the Godfather of gastronomic choice, I probably should have asked him what to do about my ailing food mojo, but I didn’t. Still, waking from that dream was inspiration enough, a sign of sorts. A A Gill had come to me in a dream and we had had lunch together. That’s got to mean something positive.
As my appetite continues to come back in fits and starts, on Saturday night I dreamt of my favourite food critic and one of my favourite writers, Adrian A Gill.
I love A A Gill. I love the way he writes. I love how he makes or breaks careers with his reviews. I love how all the top restaurants in London have his picture pinned up in the kitchen by way of warning – be careful if this customer shows up. His passion for words easily surpasses his passion for food. He loathes Greek cooking, and would probably not talk to me at all purely because I now live in Athens. Maybe he’s a complete monster in real life and would kick me into the path of oncoming traffic without a second thought if I dared approach him, but I *love* him.
In the dream we were in some restaurant or other and I had somehow twisted his arm into having lunch with me. Him, a well-heeled journalist who writes for the Times on a salary of £300,000+ about what he ate; me a literary nobody. Having lunch at the same table. It could only happen in a dream.
Seeing as I was dining with the Godfather of gastronomic choice, I probably should have asked him what to do about my ailing food mojo, but I didn’t. Still, waking from that dream was inspiration enough, a sign of sorts. A A Gill had come to me in a dream and we had had lunch together. That’s got to mean something positive.
1 comment:
His pose in that photo is soooo dramatic. So was your post. It's pretty hilarious that just when you have an appetite crisis, this guys pops into your dreams. Whatever shall you make if this?!
Post a Comment