Forget turkey; Thanksgiving is all about the taters. Each November, we Americans take great pride in crowding every inch of available stove surface with pots of buttery, golden, lumpy (or smooth, if you must) mashed potatoes. Then we heap it onto our plates like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It's glorious. I can almost hear my inner child singing "mashed potatoes" to the chorus of Handel's "Messiah."
So I’m sitting in this restaurant, enjoying the best tureen of coconut-lemongrass soup I’ve ever eaten, and all I can think about is the poor dragon fish circling around the tank next to my table. He looked angry and was obviously depressed--I swear he was suicidal. Maybe he was worried about the coming ’08 election. Maybe he saw the previews for the new Matthew Broderick Christmas movie. I finished my meal, sad for the fish but glad for my soup.