Not long ago, I met a friend for dinner at The Publican, a fine Chicago restaurant known for pork, oysters and an extensive Belgian heavy beer list. It’s really very wonderful. After some deliberation, we decided to order some oysters though I hesitated for a moment. You see, two years ago in Southwestern France, I became extremely ill eating raw oysters. TWICE. Horribly, violently, miserably ill. The second time, to my horror, was in an Arcachon restaurant famous for it’s raw seafood platters. Not being one to pass up an opportunity, I reasoned that it had been a week since the original bout and ordered up. My stomach choose to disagree with the decision. Apparently, it was too soon and boy, did it let me know. I barely made it out the door and across the street (to hide really) before I lost it in the flowerpots outside the town hall. It was a proud moment for me. Even puking into the Hotel de Ville daisies doesn’t make it any easier.
STRESSCAKE 