Friday night we took the subway to Recette, a posh restaurant in the West Village. We tried to blend in with the classy patrons: I wore a dress and clean socks and Sebastien combed his hair. I threw out my only topic of conversation during the subway ride to the restaurant so I was completely out of ideas. We occupied some time trying to decide on what to order and settled on the 7 course tasting menu.
While we waited for our food to arrive, I was sucking down water like crazy. Fortunately Sebastien likes to talk so I let him entertain arguments against raising the minimum wage and discuss criminal indictments at his old firm. I interjected with an uh huh or wow every now and then, but I’m sure he would have done fine if he were eating alone.
As each new plate of food arrived I could sense him tiring of carrying the conversation. Things went silent around the fifth course. I started to get nervous, which in my case means that my body acts out in strange ways. Not knowing what to say I grabbed Sebastien’s hand and leaned into the table to whisper in his ear. “I farted,” I said. We both started laughing and that’s when I knew it was going to be all right.