petits financiers

Fifth Floor is so incredibly conservative that the investment bankers and their families politely ignored Kat’s amazing pink and purple braids and dreads and the fact that I wore a cocktail gown over my enormous seven-months belly. The hostess, however, brought jackets for the brothers Fitzhardinge, to smarten them up a bit.

“They’re washed after every use,” she said.

The food was fantastic. Heirloom tomato puree and crab meat on avocado for the amuses-bouches; an extraordinary mussel chowder, with fingerling potatos and infused creme fraiche; apricot-stuffed poullarde with shiitake mushrooms and white corn, so rich and savoury yet light; a “tart” made up of stewed nectarines and a disk of delicate almond pastry, topped with creme brulee. All finished off with tiny berry muffins that the waiter called petits financiers.

We did like the idea of enforcing a dress code at Burning Man – everyone visiting the camp having to wear an x, for various values of x:

“A fur hat.”

“A pee funnel.”

“A merkin!”

“A merkin with a pee funnel attached!”

“Washed after every use.”

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