I eat peach cobbler at the Black-Eyed Pea (2048 West Gray, 523-0200; and other locations) at least once a week, and each time I do, I make the same resolution: Today, I won't wolf it down; I'll savor it; I'll cherish every morsel. Of course, it never happens. When the cobbler arrives in that ugly white bowl on that ugly white plate, I lose all self-control and promptly devour it. Rocking back and forth in my chair and humming with pleasure, I'm a sight to behold. When the waiter asks if everything's all right, he isn't inquiring if the cobbler is to my satisfaction; he wants to know if he should call an ambulance. Part of the pleasure is the restaurant itself. With its huge plastic glasses and those lemon wedges big enough to choke a horse, one doesn't expect a dessert worthy of Cafe Annie. Miracles abound, mes amis. Give thanks.
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