By public demand

(Inspired by bitterlawngnome's recent post. And Laika. "It bothers me to think of that poor dog Laika.")

Sunday morning, I finally made it to Tweet. But not, as I originally imagined, as half of a hip, urban gay couple, but as one-sixth of a hip urban gay couple, a hip urban het couple, and their decidedly unhip urban parents. The parents were a little late, having stayed in a suburban motel and then overslept. That left the rest of us with plenty of time to pour through the amusingly foofy menus. I mean, they named breakfast orders for the artists whose work was on their walls!

Me: $8 for a bowl of granola?
e.: Don't exaggerrate! It's $6.25!
Bunj: "Mock Devonshire cream"? Does that mean they make fun of Devonshire when you eat it?
Me: We thought they should call it "Devon Avenue cream". But then it would have to be made with ghee or something.

But underneath all the inescapable frou-frou silliness, the food was mighty good. Dad and Stepmom distributed gifts from their latest overseas trip, which included a touristy shirt and No. 12 ouzo for me, a muse for e., and an antique sabre of uncertain antiquity for bunj.

Dad: I think it belonged to an Ottoman soldier.
Bunj: It's got St. George on it.

Then, in the midst of all the railery, anecdote-swapping, and general good humour, I was ambushed by a thrillingly familiar object. The dishware was, depending on your aesthetic, artfully clashing or woefully mismatched. It ranged from colourful Crap in Barrels plates to--

A small blue-on-white porcelain bowl in florid 19th-century style with a device of a riverboat in the very centre. ( Cue a Proustian reverie )