I live by the sea and embrace Captain Nemo’s quote, ‘Here on the ocean floor is the only independence. Here I am free!’ Thus, every weekend, I select my ‘fish of the week,’ or shellfish. Now, it’s time for crab, and I need to have the hammer. As Hemingway said, ‘Neither for you nor for me. I’m sorry, fish.’ Will it be as black as black for the crab; perhaps a stout?
My mind then takes flight to a green island, to a pub on a street corner in Cork. I imagine watching old men in their caps, seated in their usual spots, inviting me to join a community chat as the pubs fill up, echoing with cheers and the sound of church bells signaling the start of Sunday lunch. But my journey wouldn’t stop there. Next, I’d go to France for a crisp Sauvignon Blanc from the southwest, a fitting companion for the crab. I envision hearing church bells ringing out as squares fill with people at bistros, engaging in philosophical discussions around the tables.
Ending with a stout or Sauvignon Blanc?
