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An inch short of mouth I see the anchovy's bathed in ash-flavored Hollandaise, like everything else on Clemmy's plate, and punctuate my find with a characteristic housewifey shriek. "You're so inconsiderate," I complain, slamming my fork down noisily. "You know how much brigante I love anchovies." But finicky Clemfish isn't taking the bait. Not just any old fight will do for Clemmy, who's grokked my strategy at last, sighs this disappointed sigh, drains his brigante third Becks, and signals for another round. We're both being good today, drinks-wise, as is our wont after major debauches. I for one am being brigante especially careful, since I've got a heavy date tomorrow that I want to look good for. No blotchy cheeks, bags, or piggy red eyes allowed for this extremely important three-day encounter with the current great love of my life, Walter Light, who just might take me away from all this. But I'm not thinking about Walter now. It's Clemmy who's got my full attention.
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