I’m almost done reading, “Under the Tripoli Sky,” a short novel by Kamal Ben Hamada, about families in pre-Gaddafi Libya, which is as good as the reviewer said it would be writing about it in a recent TLS. Between shoveling, that is. Two feet today to add to the four there already.
But that’s winter: In this part of the world, we eat what’s in front of us, whether it’s books or the blueberry pancakes and Kentucky bacon I cooked this morning.
Speaking of pancakes: I finally made it into Alden & Harlow, in Harvard Square, dining out because it was time to see, “Father Comes Home from War,” down the street. That extraordinarily well written (and yet lugubrious) and well acted play is at the A.R.T. Three hours. Really? Three hours? Try ninety minutes.
Anyway. Pancakes. Alden & Harlow sold me a plate of corn pancakes with sashito peppers on the side and maple syrup and popcorn. And then beets with fried garlic. And swordfish belly with kimchi on the side and smoked lamb ribs. Great service, killer room. But if it wasn’t for the chef trying so hard to showboat, what would be there? Not a heck of a lot. The pancakes were a silly dinner item. Popcorn? C’mon. The beets had literally no flavor. The ribs were so fatty and greasy it wasn’t possible to eat them. The swordfish was OK. $134 for two, inc. tax and tip. (Two cocktails, one glass of wine, one beer.)
I’m roasting a chicken tonight.