A few weeks ago, three of us went to Breugger’s, a sort of fancy, craft cocktail kind ‘o place near my home. I forget exactly what I ordered (though I recall having my pronunciation corrected by the waiter), but it was after I finished that I decided to give up on cocktails.

We’re not talking about walking away from having a mojito on vacation on a hot summer day, but no more drinks that take perfectly good liquor and sweeten it up for someone else’s palate.

Later that evening, I ordered myself a glass (neat) of decently aged MacCallan. After one sip, I wondered what I had been thinking before. For the same price of an overpriced cocktail, here I was enjoying the taste of fine scotch.

For my birthday, my better half took me out to a nice restaurant near Union Station. Whenever I go out to a nice restaurant and can safely indulge in several courses and end with some sort of digestif, whether espresso, brandy, whiskey, port, or the like, I always think about My Dinner with Andre.

The titular Andre (Andre Gregory) died not too many years ago (just one or two). I never saw him much else, except a filmed staging of Uncle Vanya called Vanya on 42nd Street, which, incidentally, also featured Wallace Shawn.

Anyway, rarely has two men eating dinner been so riveting. Of course, it’s also frustrating. As a viewer, I find myself in Shawn’s skeptical camp. Also, his more financially struggling camp. Gregory’s comparative wealth gives him options to indulge in mysticism and contemplation not available to the forever struggling playwright and sometimes actor. But what a movie. And the food always sounds delicious, without being obtrusive within the ‘story.’

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