I had been invited to the grand opening of a friend’s restaurant along with mutual friends and bloggers and strangers from the media world (read: newspaper and magazine reporters). In exchange for the free meal, I was to recommend his menu and its variety plus the ambiance of his restaurant in a blog post, which was fine by me.
Served to me was a plate of pizza that had been uniquely decorated with such a spicy twang that I downed my glass of iced water and signaled for a glass of cold milk from the nearby waitress. When he swung by from the kitchen after the session to have short words with each and every guest, I jumped at the chance and asked him what it was that he served me.
“Wasabi pizza,” was his reply.
“Are you crazy?! We both know that I can’t stand spicy food.”
“That’s the reason why I chose to serve it to you because you’re the best person.” He playfully slapped my shoulder. “Just don’t recommend this dish on your blog just yet. I still have to experiment with the intensity.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m leaving for UK this weekend. Do you want to come along?”
“I can’t. I’m not a permanent resident and there’s no way I can get a visa at such a hurried time.”
It was while I was walking past a sundry shop that I noticed the headline on the weekend copy of the newspaper, something about gay marriage in the States. With the night to myself, I took a walk along the well-lit and serene lake, the water beautifully enhanced by the stars.