All hail impulse

Cheese sandwich, improvised from a once-frozen, now-thawed potato flour hamburger roll, with sliced American and mayo, on the train with Nalgene-2-O. Lunch was two slices of the inexhaustible Domino's pizza, eaten at my desk. More water. I walked with Louisa to Starbuck's, where she gifted me an almond toffee bar. At dinner with Julie at Beacon Street Tavern, I had a Magner's and a diet Coke and a water, and a boat of baked macaroni & cheese, and a bowl of moules in savory broth with leeks and cherry tomatoes sweating their flavor, and a paper basket of frites with remoulade. Also, on impulse, intelligent wonderful impulse, a dessert: the tres leche, a butter cake soaked in sweetened milk. J. remarked that the flavor was quite like that of a Belgian waffle -- by this she meant not the Gargantuan plate-filling mutant coffered pillow that some places serve with sliced strawberry and canned whipped cream, but les gouffres sold by street stands, with chunks of caramelized sugar waiting in the cake. After the Dire Reader session, I joined Jenna Dee (after we walked off from our companions) for a gin & tonic, and a few mouthfuls of horsepiss Harpoon cider (never again, over and over he thinks), and a chicken skewer with lackadaisical satay sauce, at the Miracle of Science bar. Am I tempted to seek out richer and more exotic food, now that I am recording all my consumption?