Dinner and the Strange Neighbor

du Bois
Miami Beach

Du Barry set up last night's dinner on her second floor balcony; the five guests were three of us from the LWL, one New York house mate, and a lovely Austrian who somehow got entangled in our group during his two week vacation. At some point during the soup a comment was made about the loud house music coming from the first floor of the next building; our balcony looked directly over the front door of this apartment. du Barry said, yes, that was common every night and that the boy who lived there waved every morning as he left for work, but--once home at night--blasted house music for several hours and danced. This, I thought, would explain the occasional whoops that accompanied the music; we also noted the strobe light.

Every now and then we looked down at the curtained living room window and saw a shadow gyrating. Suddenly, we heard a knob turning and all six of us turned our eyes to the door which was slowing opening. And there he was, in an open, white, full-length terry cloth robe, black speedo, black bra, holding two small stuffed animals, and what was later deemed to be whipped cream over his face. We were transfixed, mouths open. The boy looked to his left, then to his right, and then up at us. "I'm sorry if the music is disturbing you.", he sheepishly said. I took the lead and waved, "No, not at all." Every one of us stared as he closed the door, gave a whoop and continued his dance. "Very high," said Wickenhausen.

Everyone looked at each other in amazement and returned to the meal. This strange opening of the door occurred two more times, each resulting in an offered apology and a wave from us to go on. Everything was the same: the open robe, the stuffed animals, and the whipped cream (I thought it couldn't be shaving cream as that tended to evaporate.) During dessert the sound of a key made us all turn again; another boy was entering that very apartment. "Wow", declared Wickenhausen, "dinner and a show." Wickenhausen had now placed her chair to face the apartment. We anxiously waited for the music to be turned off, but it continued on along with the strobe. Thoughts were finally being voiced about leaving when the door opened once more. Talk stopped, heads turned. Cream Face was slowing walking out of the apartment, dazed and tottering, when an arm quickly came around his neck and pulled him inside. "The boyfriend," du Barry dryly noted. The Austrian couldn't even speak. ( I'm assuming Salzburg is a little calmer than this as I look at the boy's startled face.) Even the New Yorker was silenced. "Well," chirped du Barry, "they'll now have wild sex. Let's go inside for some coffee."

du Barry's "pot luck" dinner:

White Bean and Sausage Soup (which I made and will give the recipe for)
Asparagus with Sesame Seeds
Salad in a Raspberry Sauce with walnuts (by Wickenhausen)
Fusilli pasta in a meat sauce
Chicken breast in a sherry Bechamel sauce
Rice
Assorted Petit Fors (from Deel)
Cabernet