Missy and Adam are leaving the company to work for another newspaper across town. During the good-bye lunch at Taste, my tears plopped into a bowl of potato leek soup.
Creamy food is usually comforting, or so I thought. I hoped the mayonnaise dressing in the Waldorf salad would console my contracting heart. But the dish was definitely a byproduct of the Los Angeles lifestyle. The thin white dressing barely coated the chicken and candied walnuts. The julienned green apples were as thin as the wrists of the starlets sitting behind us.
Later that night, I got my fix of comfort food at a party hosted by a quirky Norwegian clothing company. The word quirky is overused these days, but I can't think of any other way to succinctly describe how this trio of Scandinavian lads decided to use a pink stretch limo as their corporate car and spend their summer floating on some lake in the Norwegian boondocks in a fishing boat, also painted pink. At their party held at a too-hip-to-be-true Hollywood nightclub, where I last saw JT shake his ass, they recruited a couple of grannies to make heart-shaped waffles. Wearing a gray sweater, one of the matrons also shook her octagenarian ass to some disco beats.
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