Sarah Jessica Parker's Sex In The City

Somehow, Jonathan had gotten wind that I had bestowed Gerry the nickname Mr. Big. The same name Sarah Jessica Parker’s character, Carrie, had given her successful boyfriend in the HBO series, “Sex in the City.” The nickname was short for big shot, and also a reference to her well-endowed boyfriend’s body part. Jonathan had watched the series. So, he presumed Gerry and me were having an affair, and spread salacious rumors about us.
“Office politics can turn ugly fast,” Malcolm says. “Even in academia, I’ve seen it and been subject to it myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
Malcolm shrugs, and returns to the subject at hand. “But if you’re an exec at a studio with friends in high places, working there can have its perks. Makes me think, I should consider

I can’t wait to eat the spicy lentils and vegetables in a creamy blend of aromatic Indian spices. When she leaves, the yummy food delights and is a departure from the topic of Jonathan. I eat and between bites his name never comes up again. Before we leave, I ask Malcolm to show me where he teaches his meditation and spiritual class. He’s delighted, although it’s no longer in a back room of the food co-op. On the way out, he orders a dessert for later.
We leave Café Gratitude satiated, and he drives us to the City College only two blocks from the University. The urban campus feels nostalgic to me. When Mark and I first arrived in Berkeley, I took an art history class here and soon became infatuated with my professor who had studied in Florence. No surprise, creative, intelligent men have always been my weakness.
When we arrive at Malcolm’s office, it’s smaller than the one at the University. Here he shares the cozy space with a colleague, a sociology professor. We sit on a worn leather couch. He hands me the, I AM REVIVED, hot mint tea from the restaurant’s paper bag. And a thick slice of the, I AM ETERNALLY BLESSED, raspberry cake with dairy-free almond frosting. I grab a plastic fork and dig in. I chew several mouthfuls, and ask, “How many students enroll in your

I’ve eaten at the celebrated restaurant with my former fiancé on a trip to Napa. And read that Anthony Bourdain, the noted author, former chef and CNN’s irreverent world traveler extraordinaire, named The French Laundry, “The best restaurant in the world, period.” A foodie fact I choose to share with - no reservations. Malcolm’s impressed with my savoir faire, and holds two thumbs us. Emese stares him down, and insists, “The Chef’s Tasting menu at The French Laundry was merely the inspiration for tonight’s dinner.”
Either way, I reckon the evening has gotten off to a shaky start. Rather than dwell on it, I drink the rich, earthy wine and devour the first bite. The marinated egg is a culinary masterpiece. Any tension experienced minutes ago dispelled. Even Emese appears to have no memory of my inappropriate showing off behavior. Before another bite, she asks, “What brings you to Berkeley,