Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tom Selleck, Waterfalls, Sandwiches
My female sibling who is junior to me in number of years lived sent this to me. It is a collection of pictures of Tom Selleck with waterfalls and sandwiches. I love my female sibling who is junior to me in number of years lived.
Other Blog
I just started reading Bacon Laser. I don't know that I've ever endorsed a blog before, but this one - with sandwich-references throughout - bears endorsement. The author, a Clevelander, has some really great lines, such as:
(On mayo-based tuna salad)"Looks like something you would scrape off the wall of a bathhouse."
"The resulting recipe is the greatest discovery since the polio vaccine. So f*ck you, Dr. Salk."
"So, bring home this chicken. Cut off some of the white meat, enough to make a sandwich later. Set aside."
"Once the mixture above has carmelized, take the pot off the stove (with the ingredients still in it) and fill it with about 8c of water (Christ, when will we go to the metric system?)."
READ IT NOW!!!
(On mayo-based tuna salad)"Looks like something you would scrape off the wall of a bathhouse."
"The resulting recipe is the greatest discovery since the polio vaccine. So f*ck you, Dr. Salk."
"So, bring home this chicken. Cut off some of the white meat, enough to make a sandwich later. Set aside."
"Once the mixture above has carmelized, take the pot off the stove (with the ingredients still in it) and fill it with about 8c of water (Christ, when will we go to the metric system?)."
READ IT NOW!!!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Pittsburgh - Primanti Bros. and Doublewide Grill
Primanti Brothers Restaurant and Cigar Bar
S 19th St & E Carson St
Pittsburgh, PA 15203
(412) 381-2583
www.primantibrothers.com
Double Wide Grill
2339 E Carson St
Pittsburgh, PA 15203
(412) 390-1111
www.doublewidegrill.com
by Beau Cadiyo
Bite: Quantity, not Quality.
“What you have to understand about Pittsburgh is that food is much more about quantity than quality,” Edward said. “You’re not going to get a good meal here like you would in Cleveland, even if you go into a ‘gourmet’ restaurant.” We were sitting in Primanti’s on the South Side, which Ed had recommended over the original restaurant in the Strip District. “We could go there, but last time I went it smelled like raw sewage. Besides, they do really well on consistency at each one, so it’s going to be the same. And (the South Side) one is less crowded.” That surprised me – the bar was busy when we entered, and people waiting to jump on our stools when we left.
If you’ve never been, South Side buildings are often trashy and dirty. They are packed close together, on unusually narrow, oftentimes one-way streets. Traffic is congested, parking spots are few and far between and apartments stack up on top of street-level businesses in a muddle. Somehow, that means that the South Side is prosperous and thick with people, both locals and tourists, and fosters an atmosphere of excitement and safety. For twenty-some blocks, restaurants and bars compete with restaurants and bars – I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an extended area so densely packed with places to eat and drink. According to Edward, though, not many of them were any good. Pittsburghers like lots of fatty food, and they don’t mind it if it doesn’t taste good as long as there’s lots of it. Frank Hoxha noted that this attitude was reflected in waistlines, which tended to be larger than anywhere I’ve ever seen, with the exception, perhaps, of a popular Dairy Queen I once ate at in rural Nebraska.
We sat down with Yuenglings, and shortly afterward two massive sandwiches arrived. Ed and I split a Jumbo Fish and Cheese and a Pittsburgher. Before picking up his half of the Pittsburgher, Ed asked for the hot sauce, bottles of which stood sentry about the bar. I handed it over, and he said, “Just so you know, you’re going to need this, too.” My first bite confirmed it: the entire sandwich, despite being stuffed with fried fish, American cheese, coleslaw and fries, was bland. It was more than bland – it was absolutely devoid of taste, as if some secret ingredient was added to the sandwich that sucked all flavor out of it. Each bite of the fish sandwich required more and more hot sauce. I added some honey mustard dressing from a plastic pouch and it barely registered against the blandness. The Pittsburgher was just as tasteless, and required even more hot sauce.
While they were tasteless, though, Ed’s suggestion made me question my paradigm of how to judge food. I’ve long analyzed food by taste, texture, aroma, heat, balance, etc. – really, all the things one might use to judge “quality.” Quantity, though, is also important, especially from an evolutionary perspective. After all, food must nourish us with life-sustaining calories and nutrients. The diet of Pittsburghers, if the Primanti sandwich is any indication, was meant for an industrial lifestyle with exceptional physical activity, and the French fries on top of the sandwich made it easier for working people to eat a full meal while on the go. The Fourth Earl of Sandwich would have approved. At the same time, these sandwiches were meant to nourish a lifestyle that no longer exists for many Primanti’s patrons. The investment managers, lawyers and hipsters all around us were scarfing down giant portions adapted to a particularly physical lifestyle, but are not living that lifestyle – thus, their rotundity.
What, then, is the ideal for modern man? It certainly isn’t the Food Pyramid – that’s the ideal for the sugar lobby and other special interest groups which have corrupted the FDA and made its recommendations a joke. I’m still trying to figure that one out. All I do know is that with a food paradigm of most people looking for taste, texture and presentation, Primanti Brothers fails; with the paradigm that food is meant to be big, fatty and bland, all in order to nourish an active lifestyle, Primanti Brothers succeeds in epic form.
Ed’s housewarming party was that night. Frank Novotny, the editor of a weekly paper which used to reimburse us for our reviews, was there, and she said basically what Edward had: when it comes to food, nothing in Pittsburgh can compare to Cleveland, but what Pittsburgh lacks in quality, it makes up for in quantity.
The next day found us at Double Wide, an old gas station/garage which had been converted into a grill. Oil cans were made into lampshades and gas signs dotted the walls in between giant flat-screen televisions. An elevated living-room area, with two couches and a TV, took a place of honor near the front door, and looked exceedingly inviting to those at the table with hangovers (Frank Koehler had been drinking until 6 a.m. for two days straight). A chipper Frank Tsai joined us late; he had been hopping around the Strip district, and while he liked it, he had gotten lost repeatedly and had nothing good to say about the city planning. “I know. Where would you have put those three rivers?” Edward said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.
Again, we were in for obscenely fatty food; Frank Hoxha noted that many of the patrons lived up to the name of the diner. I ordered the turkey burger, hoping that it would be both tasty and healthier. Of course, we were in Pittsburgh: the turkey was creamy and soft, almost raw, and yielding without resistance to my teeth like mashed potatoes. Like Primanti’s, it was both tasteless and served in massive portions – my burger was at least 5 inches high, including the bun, and the patty was probably 1 inch thick. I’d originally ordered the home fries, but I switched my order to French fries, which was lucky, as the home fries looked crappy and were in unusually small portions. The French fries, on the other hand, were passable as such. They certainly could have used some barbecue sauce.
I went to take a dump in a narrow stall, and thought to myself that many of the patrons wouldn’t even fit in it. Then we walked back outside. Even though it was raining, the bars and restaurants still had plenty of patrons inside, and the streets were at least buzzing, if not bustling. Cleveland has the advantage in food, but this part of Pittsburgh has the advantage in livelihood. It struck me that so much of the development going on in Cleveland is either houses, apartment buildings or townhomes, and none of it is mixed use buildings with businesses on the street and apartments up top, like in Little Italy, Coventry or certain parts of downtown and Lakewood. Where it does happen, much of the space is devoted to streets; the one or two-lane roads in the examples above are so much better for getting around on foot, if not by car. If we could only get these going, the area around downtown Cleveland would be hopping; if University Circle did this, they’d reap the rewards thousands of times over.
And if the Browns could only have a winning season. Well, we beat the Steelers. Perhaps we’ll get some good city planning in place, and perhaps 2010 will be our year on the gridiron, too.
S 19th St & E Carson St
Pittsburgh, PA 15203
(412) 381-2583
www.primantibrothers.com
Double Wide Grill
2339 E Carson St
Pittsburgh, PA 15203
(412) 390-1111
www.doublewidegrill.com
by Beau Cadiyo
Bite: Quantity, not Quality.
“What you have to understand about Pittsburgh is that food is much more about quantity than quality,” Edward said. “You’re not going to get a good meal here like you would in Cleveland, even if you go into a ‘gourmet’ restaurant.” We were sitting in Primanti’s on the South Side, which Ed had recommended over the original restaurant in the Strip District. “We could go there, but last time I went it smelled like raw sewage. Besides, they do really well on consistency at each one, so it’s going to be the same. And (the South Side) one is less crowded.” That surprised me – the bar was busy when we entered, and people waiting to jump on our stools when we left.
If you’ve never been, South Side buildings are often trashy and dirty. They are packed close together, on unusually narrow, oftentimes one-way streets. Traffic is congested, parking spots are few and far between and apartments stack up on top of street-level businesses in a muddle. Somehow, that means that the South Side is prosperous and thick with people, both locals and tourists, and fosters an atmosphere of excitement and safety. For twenty-some blocks, restaurants and bars compete with restaurants and bars – I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an extended area so densely packed with places to eat and drink. According to Edward, though, not many of them were any good. Pittsburghers like lots of fatty food, and they don’t mind it if it doesn’t taste good as long as there’s lots of it. Frank Hoxha noted that this attitude was reflected in waistlines, which tended to be larger than anywhere I’ve ever seen, with the exception, perhaps, of a popular Dairy Queen I once ate at in rural Nebraska.
We sat down with Yuenglings, and shortly afterward two massive sandwiches arrived. Ed and I split a Jumbo Fish and Cheese and a Pittsburgher. Before picking up his half of the Pittsburgher, Ed asked for the hot sauce, bottles of which stood sentry about the bar. I handed it over, and he said, “Just so you know, you’re going to need this, too.” My first bite confirmed it: the entire sandwich, despite being stuffed with fried fish, American cheese, coleslaw and fries, was bland. It was more than bland – it was absolutely devoid of taste, as if some secret ingredient was added to the sandwich that sucked all flavor out of it. Each bite of the fish sandwich required more and more hot sauce. I added some honey mustard dressing from a plastic pouch and it barely registered against the blandness. The Pittsburgher was just as tasteless, and required even more hot sauce.
While they were tasteless, though, Ed’s suggestion made me question my paradigm of how to judge food. I’ve long analyzed food by taste, texture, aroma, heat, balance, etc. – really, all the things one might use to judge “quality.” Quantity, though, is also important, especially from an evolutionary perspective. After all, food must nourish us with life-sustaining calories and nutrients. The diet of Pittsburghers, if the Primanti sandwich is any indication, was meant for an industrial lifestyle with exceptional physical activity, and the French fries on top of the sandwich made it easier for working people to eat a full meal while on the go. The Fourth Earl of Sandwich would have approved. At the same time, these sandwiches were meant to nourish a lifestyle that no longer exists for many Primanti’s patrons. The investment managers, lawyers and hipsters all around us were scarfing down giant portions adapted to a particularly physical lifestyle, but are not living that lifestyle – thus, their rotundity.
What, then, is the ideal for modern man? It certainly isn’t the Food Pyramid – that’s the ideal for the sugar lobby and other special interest groups which have corrupted the FDA and made its recommendations a joke. I’m still trying to figure that one out. All I do know is that with a food paradigm of most people looking for taste, texture and presentation, Primanti Brothers fails; with the paradigm that food is meant to be big, fatty and bland, all in order to nourish an active lifestyle, Primanti Brothers succeeds in epic form.
Ed’s housewarming party was that night. Frank Novotny, the editor of a weekly paper which used to reimburse us for our reviews, was there, and she said basically what Edward had: when it comes to food, nothing in Pittsburgh can compare to Cleveland, but what Pittsburgh lacks in quality, it makes up for in quantity.
The next day found us at Double Wide, an old gas station/garage which had been converted into a grill. Oil cans were made into lampshades and gas signs dotted the walls in between giant flat-screen televisions. An elevated living-room area, with two couches and a TV, took a place of honor near the front door, and looked exceedingly inviting to those at the table with hangovers (Frank Koehler had been drinking until 6 a.m. for two days straight). A chipper Frank Tsai joined us late; he had been hopping around the Strip district, and while he liked it, he had gotten lost repeatedly and had nothing good to say about the city planning. “I know. Where would you have put those three rivers?” Edward said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.
Again, we were in for obscenely fatty food; Frank Hoxha noted that many of the patrons lived up to the name of the diner. I ordered the turkey burger, hoping that it would be both tasty and healthier. Of course, we were in Pittsburgh: the turkey was creamy and soft, almost raw, and yielding without resistance to my teeth like mashed potatoes. Like Primanti’s, it was both tasteless and served in massive portions – my burger was at least 5 inches high, including the bun, and the patty was probably 1 inch thick. I’d originally ordered the home fries, but I switched my order to French fries, which was lucky, as the home fries looked crappy and were in unusually small portions. The French fries, on the other hand, were passable as such. They certainly could have used some barbecue sauce.
I went to take a dump in a narrow stall, and thought to myself that many of the patrons wouldn’t even fit in it. Then we walked back outside. Even though it was raining, the bars and restaurants still had plenty of patrons inside, and the streets were at least buzzing, if not bustling. Cleveland has the advantage in food, but this part of Pittsburgh has the advantage in livelihood. It struck me that so much of the development going on in Cleveland is either houses, apartment buildings or townhomes, and none of it is mixed use buildings with businesses on the street and apartments up top, like in Little Italy, Coventry or certain parts of downtown and Lakewood. Where it does happen, much of the space is devoted to streets; the one or two-lane roads in the examples above are so much better for getting around on foot, if not by car. If we could only get these going, the area around downtown Cleveland would be hopping; if University Circle did this, they’d reap the rewards thousands of times over.
And if the Browns could only have a winning season. Well, we beat the Steelers. Perhaps we’ll get some good city planning in place, and perhaps 2010 will be our year on the gridiron, too.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Le Petit Triangle
1881 Fulton Rd
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 281-1881
www.lepetittrianglecafe.com
by Beau Cadiyo
Imagine, first, that you are a member of an organization that many conspiracy theorists believe secretly controls the world. Imagine further that you’re part of a splinter faction which is in open rebellion against the entrenched establishment, and that you’ve been invited to participate in special meetings to discuss the future of the organization. Imagine further still that you’re meeting some of the other rebels at Le Petit Triangle. Now you know how it feels to be me.
Everything inside Le Petit Triangle is beautiful in an olde-worlde way. The restaurant is uncommonly small and narrow, the chairs are old and worn without being shabby and the tables are covered in tablecloths and white butcher paper with arrangements of leaves sticking out of vases. The kitchen in the middle of the room is surrounded by a bar, and four stools stand at attention next to it; however, the bar top is entirely covered with kitchen supplies, including a recently emptied wooden cask of wine, preventing anyone attempting to make use of the stools to enjoy a drink or a meal at the bar. They are thus totally useless, but in a very picturesque, French manner. The giant mirrors on the walls are very Versailles, and the wide windows opening out onto the street makes the restaurant feel distinctly open. The drafty door allowed cold winter air in while we were eating, but nobody seemed to mind. Also irredeemably French was the bathroom, which is down a wide flight of precipitously narrow steps. A giant coq awaits vacating diners at the bottom, and the bathroom itself is tiny, barely large enough for the small sink and a toilet. Sorry – “petit.”
The restaurant is stereotypically French in its treatment of customers. First, it took 40 minutes for the waitress to take our order. She kept stopping by the table to say, “I’ll be right back to take your order,” or, “Give me one minute and I’ll get your order.” When she was actually there to take our order, she said, “Are you guys ready to order?” as if we very well might ask for more time. In Denny’s it would have been rude; here, however, we thanked her for the opportunity. Perhaps it was also that she was, in the French manner, sexy without being conventionally attractive. She was in her late thirties, or perhaps forties; her face was hard and she had on a loose-fitting tan blouse with high-rise jeans, yet something about her was undeniably sensual.
But we were there to talk, and so we talked. This group that conspiracy theorists love to hate – I’ll call them “Them,” and the splinter faction “Us”– is rapidly declining in power and influence as Their members age and die out. My path to Them, and then to Us, is convoluted: I first joined Them in San Diego, but left when They started sending out anti-Mexican missives. I reconnected with Them in Cleveland, but left after I put forward my friend Frank Jones as a prospective member. Frank grew up in Akron and rose out of relative poverty to get a BA, then a Masters, then a JD (with various honors), and started work at one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. He is also black. They told me I would should not bring him back, and that I should think about leaving myself. I took them up on that.
Then I found Us. We have black members, are relatively young, and seem to be going in the right direction. We are trying to create an alternative to Them by changing some of the core aspects of Their practices for Our own use. I’m getting into Our leadership because I had experience with Us in Europe, when I lived over there. Well, that’s what Our leaders tell me. I’m not quite sure why people put trust or confidence in me, or if they actually do – if I’m a pawn, a bishop or a king. Sometimes I feel like I’m being set up. Maybe, at 30, I’m in a weird middle ground where I know enough to realize my own limitations, but not enough to compensate for them.
I had the Croque Norvegien with an egg, which made it a Madame and added a dollar to the price. Nobody at the table expected the egg to be on top; we thought it would be inside. While generally this could have been easily corrected when it arrived at the table, the sandwich also came with a dollop of thick grey-brown gravy under the egg but on top of the bread, making it a knife-and-fork-only affair. There were some Lyonnaise potatoes on the side that were either fried (which I doubt) or baked; the last one I ate was caked on the bottom with spices, but the others only tasted of oil and earth.
Inside the sandwich was delicate, flaky smoked salmon and what appeared to be some sort of dill sauce which, together, were delicious. The yolk of the egg was fried a little bit too hard for it to be runny so, unfortunately, it didn’t spew out all over the sandwich. The bread was thick and spongy, so cutting it was difficult; piercing all four layers (egg, bread, salmon, bread) with the fork and then cutting into the whole seemed likely to rip the salmon fibers apart and squish the bread unpleasantly. When it came off of the fork, though, the bread sprung back to form in my mouth and made chewing awkward. It took four or five mis-judged pieces to figure out the optimal size. It would have been much easier to have picked it up, sheared off bites with my incisors surely your canines don’t do the shearing and eaten it like a proper, original, English sandwich (link to sandwich describing its origins).
Regardless of logistical difficulties, this was one of the best pieces of smoked salmon I’ve ever had, in-sandwich or otherwise. The egg’s hard-fried white added a crunch to the top, and the gravy, which I thought tasted like it came out of a packet, added needed salt and moisture to each bite. Most remarkable, and perhaps most French, about the meal was that the portions were neither too large nor too small (link to John Palmer’s Bistro 44 discussion of portion sizes). I left neither hungry nor full, but finished the meal perfectly satisfied.
The check was supposed to be split three ways, with me paying the least, since I didn't drink wine. However, the waitress did not see the detailed note that we put on the receipt and split the check evenly. When this was brought to her attention she became frustrated, fluttered her hands and said, “I can’t deal with this right now,” and turned to the bar. This time, her reaction did border on rude; still, our table figured it out without anyone feeling truly offended. It was all part of Le Petit Triangle’s charm, and this sort of treatment apparently didn’t deter customers – when we left at 8:30 p.m., we walked past eight people standing in the cold, drafty doorway waiting for tables.
I will join them, someday soon, waiting at the door. I will return with my girlfriend on a date, or with my father, who spent his university years in Montpellier, France, or with anybody else who wants to take two hours to eat a good sandwich in an absolutely charming, frustrating little place and love every minute of it.
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 281-1881
www.lepetittrianglecafe.com
by Beau Cadiyo
Imagine, first, that you are a member of an organization that many conspiracy theorists believe secretly controls the world. Imagine further that you’re part of a splinter faction which is in open rebellion against the entrenched establishment, and that you’ve been invited to participate in special meetings to discuss the future of the organization. Imagine further still that you’re meeting some of the other rebels at Le Petit Triangle. Now you know how it feels to be me.
Everything inside Le Petit Triangle is beautiful in an olde-worlde way. The restaurant is uncommonly small and narrow, the chairs are old and worn without being shabby and the tables are covered in tablecloths and white butcher paper with arrangements of leaves sticking out of vases. The kitchen in the middle of the room is surrounded by a bar, and four stools stand at attention next to it; however, the bar top is entirely covered with kitchen supplies, including a recently emptied wooden cask of wine, preventing anyone attempting to make use of the stools to enjoy a drink or a meal at the bar. They are thus totally useless, but in a very picturesque, French manner. The giant mirrors on the walls are very Versailles, and the wide windows opening out onto the street makes the restaurant feel distinctly open. The drafty door allowed cold winter air in while we were eating, but nobody seemed to mind. Also irredeemably French was the bathroom, which is down a wide flight of precipitously narrow steps. A giant coq awaits vacating diners at the bottom, and the bathroom itself is tiny, barely large enough for the small sink and a toilet. Sorry – “petit.”
The restaurant is stereotypically French in its treatment of customers. First, it took 40 minutes for the waitress to take our order. She kept stopping by the table to say, “I’ll be right back to take your order,” or, “Give me one minute and I’ll get your order.” When she was actually there to take our order, she said, “Are you guys ready to order?” as if we very well might ask for more time. In Denny’s it would have been rude; here, however, we thanked her for the opportunity. Perhaps it was also that she was, in the French manner, sexy without being conventionally attractive. She was in her late thirties, or perhaps forties; her face was hard and she had on a loose-fitting tan blouse with high-rise jeans, yet something about her was undeniably sensual.
But we were there to talk, and so we talked. This group that conspiracy theorists love to hate – I’ll call them “Them,” and the splinter faction “Us”– is rapidly declining in power and influence as Their members age and die out. My path to Them, and then to Us, is convoluted: I first joined Them in San Diego, but left when They started sending out anti-Mexican missives. I reconnected with Them in Cleveland, but left after I put forward my friend Frank Jones as a prospective member. Frank grew up in Akron and rose out of relative poverty to get a BA, then a Masters, then a JD (with various honors), and started work at one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. He is also black. They told me I would should not bring him back, and that I should think about leaving myself. I took them up on that.
Then I found Us. We have black members, are relatively young, and seem to be going in the right direction. We are trying to create an alternative to Them by changing some of the core aspects of Their practices for Our own use. I’m getting into Our leadership because I had experience with Us in Europe, when I lived over there. Well, that’s what Our leaders tell me. I’m not quite sure why people put trust or confidence in me, or if they actually do – if I’m a pawn, a bishop or a king. Sometimes I feel like I’m being set up. Maybe, at 30, I’m in a weird middle ground where I know enough to realize my own limitations, but not enough to compensate for them.
I had the Croque Norvegien with an egg, which made it a Madame and added a dollar to the price. Nobody at the table expected the egg to be on top; we thought it would be inside. While generally this could have been easily corrected when it arrived at the table, the sandwich also came with a dollop of thick grey-brown gravy under the egg but on top of the bread, making it a knife-and-fork-only affair. There were some Lyonnaise potatoes on the side that were either fried (which I doubt) or baked; the last one I ate was caked on the bottom with spices, but the others only tasted of oil and earth.
Inside the sandwich was delicate, flaky smoked salmon and what appeared to be some sort of dill sauce which, together, were delicious. The yolk of the egg was fried a little bit too hard for it to be runny so, unfortunately, it didn’t spew out all over the sandwich. The bread was thick and spongy, so cutting it was difficult; piercing all four layers (egg, bread, salmon, bread) with the fork and then cutting into the whole seemed likely to rip the salmon fibers apart and squish the bread unpleasantly. When it came off of the fork, though, the bread sprung back to form in my mouth and made chewing awkward. It took four or five mis-judged pieces to figure out the optimal size. It would have been much easier to have picked it up, sheared off bites with my incisors surely your canines don’t do the shearing and eaten it like a proper, original, English sandwich (link to sandwich describing its origins).
Regardless of logistical difficulties, this was one of the best pieces of smoked salmon I’ve ever had, in-sandwich or otherwise. The egg’s hard-fried white added a crunch to the top, and the gravy, which I thought tasted like it came out of a packet, added needed salt and moisture to each bite. Most remarkable, and perhaps most French, about the meal was that the portions were neither too large nor too small (link to John Palmer’s Bistro 44 discussion of portion sizes). I left neither hungry nor full, but finished the meal perfectly satisfied.
The check was supposed to be split three ways, with me paying the least, since I didn't drink wine. However, the waitress did not see the detailed note that we put on the receipt and split the check evenly. When this was brought to her attention she became frustrated, fluttered her hands and said, “I can’t deal with this right now,” and turned to the bar. This time, her reaction did border on rude; still, our table figured it out without anyone feeling truly offended. It was all part of Le Petit Triangle’s charm, and this sort of treatment apparently didn’t deter customers – when we left at 8:30 p.m., we walked past eight people standing in the cold, drafty doorway waiting for tables.
I will join them, someday soon, waiting at the door. I will return with my girlfriend on a date, or with my father, who spent his university years in Montpellier, France, or with anybody else who wants to take two hours to eat a good sandwich in an absolutely charming, frustrating little place and love every minute of it.
Friday, January 22, 2010
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