Last night I bit an anchovy. While that bite was no larger than the nail on my pinky finger, it filled my mouth with such a fish smoke. A fish smoke that allowed me to sit at a bar unabashed while blowing air from my puffed cheeks like I had just taken a bite of too hot pizza. But I was not actually eating pizza and it was not hot air that issued from my lips, no, no; it was more like molecule upon molecule of fish perfume. But I swallowed it, I F-ing swallowed that vinegar smothered, Spanish styled, little MoFo.
Sounds bad, right? But really, no, it wasn’t so bad at all. Six months ago I would have wretched, swiftly depositing a pinky nail sized chunk into a napkin. That’s what I call progress, progress people.