Up On The Roof
This pie came downtown for the mixed-grill and stayed for dessert. There was an excited conversation about British game vs French game and Wolfgang (not that Wolfgang but another Wolfgang) whispered just to me, “The real game is in southern Germany.”
More talk about climbing Hungarian fruit trees, then snail farming.
After the pie had made its second round, Magda asked how I can eat pie (or anything) for more than three days in a row let alone 20. I wonder that myself sometimes.
But then I look around to the gathering of souls at the table (Tamas, David, Lucy, Natalie, Angel, Bogyi, Blake and Wolfgang); then to the Christmas lights of her roof garden paradise; I breathe in the breeze off the Hudson and I say, “Each pie is a slice of heaven.”