It melted. It freaking melted. What the hell was it anyway? Quail can't melt — unless it's chocolate quail. Or an ice sculpture of a quail. It doesn't have a high enough fat content.
Maybe it was the second pint of beer, the third glass of Dom or the watermelon martini, but I had no idea what had just entered my mouth.
The all-white gallery room at Sketch (9 Conduit St., London, England), which appeared to be a converted warehouse, was lit by single candles on tables that were in no particular array, 20-foot high ceilings not assisting the already limited luminance. Twenty
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