The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

In Ben Lerner's Leaving the Atocha Station, the narrator is having a meal with one of the women he is attracted to. He's not in Madrid at all. He is in Barcelona.
A few blocks away was the restaurant, Alkimia, full of fashionable people, and although it was crowded and we had no reservation we were immediately seated. I ordered a drink in Spanish and the waiter clarified my order in English, something that never happened in Madrid. Teresa ordered various small plates and they came quickly: tuna belly cut in the manner of Iberian ham and served over some kind of broad bean; white bread rubbed in oil and covered in tomato paste; a dish involving truffles and tiny pieces of sausage that might have been duck; it was all delicious. They brought us a bottle of white wine I hadn't heard Teresa order and by dessert I felt pleasantly drunk. Dessert was a wonderful and unfamiliar ice cream and I asked the waiter what was in it and he said "Eucalyptus." I was slow to recognise the gorgeous word as English.


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