I’m still recovering from last night’s dinner at an experimental restaurant. It was almost too intense. The combination of flavors was dizzying, and included stuff like lavender, banana, fava beans, mint, fried broccoli, ginger, celery root, truffle, and kefir. I learned about the vegetable ramp, which is apparently a southern Illinois thing. The last course was served on a burning stick of cinnamon, and was a sort of purse made of sweet potato tempura with custard inside. It was all very weird, and very good, and now I feel like just eating bread and butter for a week.

Andy had suggested that Thomas and I meet him at the Redhead Piano bar after dinner, and I admit that when I first walked in and realized what the place was all about—a piano player who takes requests, while people sing along—my first thought was, “This is going to suck. We’ll be hearing ‘The Piano Man’ all night long.” But it was actually kind of fun watching people rock out to “Don’t Stop Believing” and such. And the pianist played “Georgia,” for which (like all Ray Charles songs) I have a soft spot in my heart.