Last night I was having dinner at Leopard at des Artistes.
I was seated next to a man in his forties and a woman, early thirties, she was dressed stylish but minimalistic, lots of skin.
She was an aspiring playwright, maybe an actress who wanted to become a playwright?
The man said: ‘Forget the story, all I care for is the internal conflict of the characters.’ Then he looked at her and he said: ‘You are famous, but want to be more famous right?’
They had a discussion about irony while sharing some crab salad.
The man said: ‘Irony is an internal conflict that is funny. But I’m not an expert. I know what works you know what I mean. I feel it. I smell it.’
He laughed a few times very hard but without reason.
He then said to the waiter: ‘You are from Croatia, aren’t you?’
The waiter: ‘I’m from Romania.’
The man: ‘I knew it, Eastern Europe, I can smell Eastern Europe from miles away.’
He asked for the check, mumbled, ‘business expenses’ and had to laugh again quite hard.