Don’t Do This to Me, I’m Fat Enough Already

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This goes out to anyone who has ever been on a press trip. You know the suffering. The madness. The ‘it’s already time to eat? We just had lunch’ feeling you sometimes get when your hosts want you to sample their cuisine and pile it on.

I’m sure I’ll get no sympathy from Kent, who’s just finishing up a week of traveling in Burgundy and eating three-course meals throughout the cities of Dijon and Paris. Likewise from Cindy who accompanied me to Sardinia where we both groaned when we counted those five stars outside of the fancy seafood restaurant at the high class hotel where we’d dine, ad infinitum, that night.

So tonight, I’m sure I’ll find no takers for sympathy when I tell you we’ve gorged beyond our limits. Enough with the wine, no more of the fifth bottle of dessert wine. No more fancy chocolate dessert, no more of those chocolates after the dessert, no more course upon course of fancy fois gras, yes, and pigeon, and yes a sea bass tartar. Pictured is the guy with the cheese table, rolling a groaning board of cheese from the Savoie region to tempt us with big slices.

It’s only our first night here, by God, and they showed us the cellar where they had cases of Romanee Conte, and Petrus, and the place is owned by Rothschild, as in Lefite. No no, not another week of this. Stay tuned, I can barely sleep and it’s only Monday. I fear the scale.