Last night, Janelle took us to St. Moritz (warning: truly horrible animated graphics ahead), a Swiss fondue restaurant in Soho. "Us" included James, another co-worker who always seems to get stuck being the solitary Englishman amongst a group of expatriated Yanks, and Claudine, a former co-worker of mine from JPL who is staying at our house. We had a fabulous time trying to convince the haughty blonde maitre'd, who looked as though her face might break if she tried to crack a smile, that we had a reservation. It wasn't under Janelle's first or last name. In fact, it had been recorded under her mother's name, which had, through the miracle of mutually incompatible accents, mutated from "Linda" to "Windor." Lovely.
Me: "James, this is Claud. She's also a rocket scientist." James: "Fantastic, I get to feel twice as stupid tonight. Do you attach the engines to the rockets, then?" Me: "No, actually, she spends a lot of time staring at the moon." Marco: "James does that too." James: "Fuck off, Marco."
Death awaits you with nasty sharp pointy fondue forks.
(Click for sappy pictures of friends and of Marco and me being all couply and things. Yarr.)