a kind of potato salad

talk about a hot potato; cooking done, the scalding, softly swelled bulge is cut swiftly, peel on, into thick slices. doused with olive oil, it ambles to soak up the green, shifting its essence to a distinctly altered state, a lavish consumption between olive and spud. a ‘begin the beguine’? yes? 
that’s just to get started. and whilst this takes place, mussels begin to steam open, savoring juices, then out from their shell, beard cut, plop-bellied into a mayonnaise, fragrant of tarragon. now wash the mâche, taking care not to bust any florets.

sap the potatoes and use the drained flux to mate with the mayonnaise. it should become less gluppy, turn more to a vinaigrette, assisted by mussel juice, la dijonnaise, a few grinds of pepper and a twist of sea salt. ah, and the bright roe of salmon, fish bait to some, to me a tongue plopping glee, scantily to top, a here and a there, though not mere decoration. and now, as craig would say: a madman to mix it all up. ecstasy like this, once off camera, won’t look pretty, but, hey, the taste, the flavor. according to pierre: mykél, as he called me, the flayvooour, ah, that’s extraordinaire. spécial, vraiment, comme tout.
and so it goes, as everyone knows.

for desert we had a financier each, that lovely sweet, from the pearl, delightfully delicious, just sweet enough to finish the wine, then call it a night.