Simon was ensconced at a table at DelMonico’s.
In some ways, Simon thought, this was the best part of the experience—looking forward to those first few wonderful mouthfuls of mussels and garlic bread, olfactory senses going full bore.
It was not something that would shake the edifices of the mathematical establishment, but it was a pretty piece of mathematical legerdemain, a beautifully balanced equation: DelMonico’s = Heaven.
Who said pleasure could not be quantified?
That could be rectified.
He had been so moved by the cuisine that he had felt compelled to seek out the chef and personally express his gratitude.
And it wasn’t like Simon to just find the guy and say, “Hey man, thanks for one really fantastic meal—an epicurean delight, a transcendent culinary experience, a bodacious repast.”
No, with Simon an expression of gratitude would have to take some palpable form.
When Simon had really enjoyed a meal, Jaz usually waited with some trepidation to see exactly what form his “thank you” would take.
And the chef had—to Jaz’s chagrin—received the full treatment.
Suddenly, a look of rapture was on Simon’s face.
When the chef, Angelo—a burly man who spoke mainly Italian and very little English—appeared, Simon had drawn him close and held him.
But, like Simon, he used the words he did know efficaciously.
Her deeply considered conclusion about the behavior was, while not likely to be cited as a major contribution to psychology, relatively straightforward and admirably free of technical nomenclature: “Guys can be pretty weird sometimes.”
Except for the fact that Jaz had convinced him to go incognito.
How was he going to observe the flow of life impartially if people kept ogling him
How was he going to observe the flow of life impartially if people kept ogling him and he heard them saying, “Hey, that’s the big football star! Did you see the game he had on Saturday? That guy can bring it”?