Last night, I joined two friends at the top restaurant in Strahan for a farewell dinner.
Shame I can’t say the food was terrific. My lentil soup came with a roll so cold, it must have been thawed straight from the freezer. The potato salad held barely cooked potatoes, the smoked salmon was passable, and the beef ragù… well, it was so chewy I left half of it behind for fear of choking.
But here’s the thing: the night wasn’t really about the food.
It had already begun with laughter earlier that day when I shared my “popping corn” story. After months of searching in Strahan’s IGA, I’d finally found a bag of popping corn. I stood at the stove, oil warming, one kernel in the pan, my cup of kernels poised like some popcorn priestess awaiting the sign.
Instead of spinning, that lone kernel swelled, popped, and startled me so badly I jerked the cup — sending kernels flying behind the stove, across the bench, anywhere but into the pot. I did manage to salvage a few, slamming the lid down in time, but the chaos of it had my friends roaring with laughter.
That wasn’t the end of my confessions. Over dinner, I told them how I’d made a homemade face scrub with quick oats, brown sugar, and olive oil. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I recounted this event.
The problem?
I had nowhere to store it. After searching through every cupboard, I finally resorted to my pantry stash — emptied a jar of ground chili, rinsed and dried it thoroughly, even sniffed to make sure all traces were gone, then tucked my concoction safely inside.
My friends were horrified, convinced I was one rinse away from exfoliating with fire. I tried to reassure them, but their wide-eyed expressions only made us laugh harder.
By dessert, the three of us were laughing so much that other patrons stared. Even the lady at the next table, equally unimpressed with her meal, leaned over to join in — later promising to leave a one-star review. And somewhere between our giggles, I noticed one of the chefs watching me, as if he found me familiar, or maybe fascinating. I’ll never know which.
What I do know is this: while the food was forgettable, the night was not. Because what I consumed at that table wasn’t a great meal — it was joy. And joy, as it turns out, tastes better than anything on the menu.
And to their credit, the maître d’ invited us back for a complimentary meal the following week — proof that our joy was memorable!
Christine Writer 