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lagilmanI wanna be John Grisham when I grow up.
"AFTER circling back three and then four times, by which point it was finally clear that the table was ready to order, a waiter asked John Grisham what he wanted and seemed instantly convinced that he had misheard him.
"The risotto special and the farfalle special?" the waiter said, as if such carbohydrate incaution were unthinkable beyond the world of 4-year-olds on a Saturday morning trip to Krispy Kreme.
Yes, Mr. Grisham assured him, that was right.
"Together?" the waiter pressed.
The risotto first, Mr. Grisham said, and then the pasta. Half orders of each, he clarified. And some wine. Definitely some wine. Would a sommelier wander by?
Mr. Grisham turned back to this reporter, at Fresco by Scotto, an Italian restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, and smiled. He was visibly unfazed by the surprise at his order, palpably unconcerned about its lack of sophistication and clearly at ease with the revolutionary idea of eating precisely what struck his fancy at precisely the moment his fancy was struck.
This was, by a loose count over a two-hour lunch, Reason 96 to resent and wish a plague of locusts or at least bad Publishers Weekly reviews upon Mr. Grisham. He is not only one of the best-selling novelists of our time. He is also apparently the best adjusted..."
"AFTER circling back three and then four times, by which point it was finally clear that the table was ready to order, a waiter asked John Grisham what he wanted and seemed instantly convinced that he had misheard him.
"The risotto special and the farfalle special?" the waiter said, as if such carbohydrate incaution were unthinkable beyond the world of 4-year-olds on a Saturday morning trip to Krispy Kreme.
Yes, Mr. Grisham assured him, that was right.
"Together?" the waiter pressed.
The risotto first, Mr. Grisham said, and then the pasta. Half orders of each, he clarified. And some wine. Definitely some wine. Would a sommelier wander by?
Mr. Grisham turned back to this reporter, at Fresco by Scotto, an Italian restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, and smiled. He was visibly unfazed by the surprise at his order, palpably unconcerned about its lack of sophistication and clearly at ease with the revolutionary idea of eating precisely what struck his fancy at precisely the moment his fancy was struck.
This was, by a loose count over a two-hour lunch, Reason 96 to resent and wish a plague of locusts or at least bad Publishers Weekly reviews upon Mr. Grisham. He is not only one of the best-selling novelists of our time. He is also apparently the best adjusted..."
