peter brady is stealing my memory!

During my Minneapolis crap-tv fest, I watched one episode of "My Fair Brady," The VH-1 horror that follows Chistopher Knight (aka Peter Brady) and his girlfriend (the first-ever "America's Next Top Model") as they try to (I guess) figure out whether they really want to be committed to each other. In the episode that I saw they were on a trip to Puerto Rico and they went to this restaurant in downtown San Juan where all the food on the menu are aphrodisiacs. The owner of the restaurant sits down to chat with them and puts poor Peter on the spot by asking them why they aren't married (and causing Peter, I'm sure, to wonder why they didn't just go out for "pork chopsh and and apple sausch"). After the chat, Ms. Peter goes on about how much she loved the owner of the restaurant, how comfortable he made her feel, how connected he seemed to life and love.

And as the whole scene is unfolding, I realize I've been to that restaurant. Slowly, I began to recognize the details of the courtyard and the inflections of the owner's voice. I didn't eat at the restaurant (way out of my budget), but I spent part of an afternoon in that courtyard, talking with the owner. We (me and various students from Knox, my former place of employment) were loitering outside of the restaurant (looking at a church I think), and the owner came out to chat with us. He told us the origins of San Juan's blue cobblestone streets and he invited us in to see his restaurant. The place was lovely, especially the courtyard. He talked to us about life and love and the importance of food and why he loved owning this restaurant. The afternoon seemed lovely and lucky and perfectly singular. And now Peter Brady and his silly paramour have stolen my lovely memory!