Person 1: “I feel like I’m in a prison labor camp in Siberia.”
Person 2: “You’re not wrong.”
Person 3: “I woke up shrieking when I saw snow.”
Person 4: “At least it’s sunny.”
Person 1: “Fuck you and your relentless optimism Brian.”
The River Café is a restaurant that in the best way does not belong to the young, which is to say that it doesn’t adhere to the Brooklyn of vintage motor gear and skinny jeans and biases against reservations. The culture of expensive restaurants in the current age is the culture of culinary fashion, turnover, alliances, brand experience, the cultivation of an intellectualized relationship to food. The River Café is about none of those things.
Was in a shit mood Sunday night. Head hurt. Felt like balls.
Ended up going to Spak for the first time in a couple months. Whoever the gentlemen were working that evening… pat yourselves on the fucking back. You guys served me, my wife, my bro, and his girl some of the best damn sandwiches I’ve ever had at your fine establishment… and I’ve had quite a few over the years.
These grinders were made with tender loving mother fucking care. Perfection. Prepared just how I asked. Extra cheese was popping, melted just right. Seitan sliced nice and thin, evenly disbursed across that delicious toasted bun. Even the placement of the tomato slices was a work of art. Hell, even the curly fries were going HAM. Not too greasy. Not too soggy. Not too crunchy. Just god damn right.
If I was on death row, that would have been a solid last meal to have devoured before departing to meet Lucifer.
If yinz had one of those “quality bells” hanging on the door like at Arby’s, I’d have rung that jazz for like 10 minutes straight.
Cured my headache by the time I was done grubbing… and the mother fucking Crow soundtrack was playing the whole time I was eating too. Real talk.
This morning’s activities have included my cleaning up after my dog Charlie after she barfed everywhere (happens every pre-move); walking all the way to Adams Morgan to pick up my car having left the key in Petworth, and being chased half a block in Columbia Heights by a ferile cat.
On the other hand, on the lawn outside of Arthur’s Grocery store at 11th, it’s soul food Saturday. What are you making? I asked a woman in a floral apron holding a pair of tongs. She wore an afro wig and very long painted nails. Her man was working the grills. Ribs, fish, collards, mac and cheese, and beans, she said. Are you ready or are you goin’ somewhere? I didn’t want to unfurl the circus of charlie’s begging routine.
A half dozen banquet trays covered in foil aligned folding tables, but the warmers weren’t yet lit. It’s deeelicious, said a middle school girl in glasses. She stood by the bike rack, gnawing on a bone. Though I’m skeptical, I think I’m heading back for lunch.