Yes, it’s true… Bielski has the touch when it comes to the culinary arts. We all know the trademarks: the olive-studded hamburgers, the pancetta-laced risotto, the lime-puckered guacamole. And, of course, the jars of iced margaritas, with a squeezed tangerine for the ladies.
God knows I indulge in these creations to the point of bursting. But what if our dear friend has a hidden agenda, a secret plan, an ulterior motive lurking beneath the saffron threads and thinly shaved garlic? Forgive me, but even as we applaud a half-century of such a well-fed life, I assert that Bielski is up to something when he feeds us, and it’s not just the joy of cooking--it’s lulling you into a gastronomic stupor so he can beat your ass in post-supper games of skill.
Clearly, I speak from experience, having been plied with a grilled steak and a chewy California cab, and then whipsawed by the former quarterback in ping pong, billiards, chess, ping pong again, Trivial Pursuit, and billiards still again (and I was sober that time).
The moral of the story: By all means, break bread with Bielski, especially if he’s authored the meal. But watch out if he wants to break a rack afterwards. The man’s a killer.
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