We were eager. A pot of mussels. A bowl of bread (baguette and leftover biscuits).
Chew. Slow down. It's just us.
The liquor was a sultry blend of butter, wine, parsley, shallot, lemon, and bacon.
We dipped and soaked crusty slices until they were melt in our mouth ready.
Roberto scraped the bottom, pulling up hidden pieces of bacon and shallot, flecked with parsley. A rogue mussel or two. Making up a biscuit bruschetta. His eyes wide. You genius—I thought—I said. I was envious, of course.
We'd slow down for a moment. But only for a moment.
A pound of mussels. Sunday.