The Mousse and the Pamplemousse: The Strawberries

My frequent trips up to New York always begin with me sliding (not so) gracefully into a booth in Shabu Tatsu, exactly 30 minutes after my train gets in, and ordering an enormous plate of raw meat, and then swirling it hypnotically in a hot pot sunken into the table. Afterwards, I usually gobble up 2 bowls of ice cream since my friend Nick can't eat his and go off to a bar if I haven't hit a wall yet and stumble 2 blocks to my other friend Salman's apartment. Then, at 7.30 the next morning I tramp off to the farmers market and buy some tomatoes and line up for strawberries at Mountain Sweet Berry, usually while slurping up Ronnybrook chocolate milk. This time Salman and I were in line just as the last flat of strawberries was up for sale.

"WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF STRAWBERRIES"

Panic ensued.

People stated how many pints they wanted. It was usually just one. Or a meek two. "EIGHT."

Outrage.

"oh COME ON! LEAVE SOME FOR THE REST OF US WHY DON'T YOU!"

People in line were fidgety and disgruntled, making protesty noises. The girl behind me gets the last of the strawberries and does a double fist pump like she won a bar of gold and shouted half dazed "YEAH! I MADE IT!" and I start to relax a little, my strawberries now secure. The old man in front of me had a granny cart and he recounted joyfully and resentfully how last week he had been behind the one who got the last strawberries and with an upwards fist swing announced that he "wanted to PUNCH that M*****F****R!!!!!!" and then added emphatically, "I really did!"

That night at Blue Hill, sandwiched between two old new york old money couples who were behaving absolutely insufferably, we ate a truly spectacular dinner. The first 3 courses were delicious, but painful to sit through: scathing passive aggression was rampant and it was exhausting. Tolerating their stares at us like we were were two rats that wandered out of a drain was very trying. On top of that we had to put up with preposterous and confusing comments like "I cannot f-ing stand it when guys don't tuck in their shirts. It's so sloppy." and "I hope these peaches aren't form Pennsylvania. Good. Because I can't eat anything from Pennsylvania" – whether it was a joke or serious was not entirely clear. But thankfully they both left before the desserts started and the wait staff relaxed. The first dessert they brought out were strawberries on a little bit of mint ice cream, topped with an elderflower cloud. The strawberries were unmistakable – small and bursting like flavor like Japanese candy. After she came to clear the dishes I asked where they were from and she checked with the chef, and came back to report that they were from Mountain Sweet Berry and was surprised when she learned that we had thought as much – who goes into a restaurant and identifies produce by farm? So I recounted the story of the morning's events, enthusiastically and with actions, hushed and whispering diners all around as we burst into peels of laughter and then she told her coworkers about the morning's near brawl over the strawberries.

Shortly after the next course, she slipped a little bag beside me on the seat, leaned over and said "These are from the chef, he says no fighting."
and inside was a green carton – a whole pint of Mountain Sweet Berry Strawberries!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG!