I just ate the best coconut cream pie in the universe. I hope I never forget anything about the way the flaky crust crumbled under my fork, the oversized shavings of coconut rolled on my tongue, the fluffy cream filled my mouth from teeth to tonsils. The drizzle of caramel, the sprig of mint.

I want to remember bursting into giggles at the first bite while looking at Marty, who sacrificed this delectable dessert to me in exchange for my similarly divine chocolate souffle. I want to remember Lachlan offering me a spoonful of his pudding as an accompaniment to my little slice of heaven. Alastair rubbing his belly in contented circles, with his lizard basking in the sun expression plastered all over his face. The small dance I did in my chair as the bliss of my tastebuds finally penetrated my brain. Not to downplay the tastiness of the first course or the main, but that coconut cream pie was pure delight.

Scaramouche is a pretentious restaurant, of that there can be no doubt. We four definitely got “the eye” when we showed up in our jeans and ratty sweaters: Lachlan all perched precariously on his crutches, Marty with his gimpy knee and piercings, me with my grotesque cold sore and Alastair… well, he was looking pretty fine, actually. But hairy eyeballs aside, the food was exceptional, the conversation hilarious, the flawlessly ripened tomatoes the stuff of legends. On top of all this we got a geography/history lesson about the making of our loose leaf tea from the fantastic Polish waiter, Max, to boot.

I will sleep tonight, and dream of that pie. I can’t wait for my head to hit the pillow.