At most restaurants I am pretty good. Pretty good at exercising self control when the waiter plops the bread basket in front of me, most of the time. Except… at French restaurants, especially at Bottega Louie and here too.
With the softest- warmest-most succulent-melt in your mouth– smell of freshly baked bread.
Made, only with love. Of course.
Baked, in the dutch oven only five feet away. I’d have it no other way.
By, the hands of the tall dark and handsome baker flown in straight from Italy. Ohhhhh man… I’m toast. Literally. I don’t even deny it.
I unclench my fists and reach for the butter knife and … How could I not? Bu Bu But… Whhhhhhy would I not? I know it’s a gluten this and gluten free that kinda world. It’s this diet today and that diet another day and this bikini body blah blllblaaaahhhhhhh… It’s ok. Really. It’s ok. As long as there’s balance– you know… ninety percent of the time there’s benefits tossed into every dish. Eat good. Exercise good. Play good. My confessional. Ahhhh… feels good.
PS- The image is not of Bottega Louie’s bread.