Chicken sandwich, fries, and a beer

It was a sports bar. You could tell from all the tvs, and the warnings that tables were reserved starting at 3:30, some Big Game must be on. I sat next to L. and across from B., who sat next to L.’s dad. I’m good at a handful of things: spelling (9th grade champ, holla!), bananagrams, getting there on time, and other people’s parents. I did a lot of smiling and mild laughing, and because B. got a beer, I got one too. I appreciated L.’s hand on my knee under the table. Despite it all, we were still us.

 

Pizza and beer

And then sometimes you’re eating a slice with everything, L.’s treat out of the first win ticket of the day, under the paddock-this-way sign, the noise of the Calder races an OTB hum in the background.

 

Portobello sandwich, chips and guacamole, and a beer

Nothing works up appetites for panini like contemporary art. By the time L. and I had seen as much as we could bear (though we each liked some of it, these piles of green balloons rustling inside plastic bags, frozen pigments that melted into sworls on cardstock) I was almost too hungry, which made the very slow service a challenge to harmony. Do I only notice this now that I’m rich beyond my wildest imaginings, poor waiter service? L. knew I was past my patience about twelve seconds before I did (I’ve known you for awhile, said L.) and was already rustling about for something disracting and shiny when I began to whimper with complaint. We played tic tac toe. The sandwiches were pretty great, when they came.

 

Pizza and beer

My one requirement for lifting and carrying more boxes up more stairs than you probably think I can was that L. spring for total realness post-helping-moving lunch. Because I am hopelessly awash in the trappings of the leisure class, the pizza was a margherita all to myself and the beer was Peroni and we ate at an outdoor cafe under cheerful sunbrellas and the menu was written in Italian. Because we were in gentrifying Gowanus to return the moving van, the view was an Enterprise car rental lot.

 

Chicken tenders, fries, and a Miller Lite

I considered the (relatively) healthful deli sandwiches. Really, I did. But I was won over by the blaring Fan Favorites! sign over the burgers ‘n’ fries ‘n’ cokes ‘n’ shakes counter and opted for the chicken tenders and fries meal deal instead. Why not go with a favorite? People had been hawking nine dollar bottles of Bud Light up and down our section all afternoon, so the six buck Miller Lite felt like a downright bargain. (I didn’t need the souvenir cup; I flippin’ hate the Yankees. It’s like pulling for Philip Morris, or capitalism. But when you live here and want to spend an afternoon at the ‘local ballpark,’ it’s sometimes Yankee stadium, what can you do.) I ate and watched the players scurry about the bases, I think a side was retired, I turned to S. at one point and said, I always forget how much more I like this game after I’ve had a beer.

 

Mozzarella, basil, and tomato with bread and a beer

I snipped the basil from L.’s backyard garden and it was already wilting by the time L. snatched the bouquet from my hands and plunged it into a glass of water. Thing about actual fresh non-wax-sealed vegetables is that you have to eat them fast or they go bad. Who knew! After a fruitful trip to the Fairway, L. set up a plate of caprese, poured beers into a pair of frosty mugs, and we ate in front of a movie on the television. It was a little Italian for such a go-go-America day, I’ll admit. But L. made a flag cake for later, so that compensates a bit for this salute to our Italian immigrant heritage.

 

Muffuletta and an Abita Amber

When in Rome, right? My waitress sat me right by the window so you can see the interesting people who make their home here but really all I saw were people like me, other tourists wandering about, deciding between the po-boys, crawfish boils, muffulettas, gumbos, and mango daiquiris. I’ve also become the kind of New Yorker who thinks we’ve got it all over your quaint little city no matter what the stakes–you don’t know the half of strange until you wander my streets, my friend. God, what an ass. I ate and drank and read the paper and ended up pulling off the slices of mortadella and leaving them to the side of my plate in an inopportune spasm of wait, what am I eating again?

 

Pork tacos and an Abita Amber

K. and I toasted with the local brew to the coming week, looking forward to food, drink, music, sport, and, oh yeah, the PCA. In a celebratory mood, I ordered the pork tacos. They came as a set of three in small grilled flour tortillas, each topped with coleslaw, and while I was a little befuddled by the lack of corn tortilla, they totally hit the spot. What was your favorite part of lunch? I asked K. as she finished her cheese enchiladas and drained the last of her beer. That those tacos hit the spot. This may be a city of death and decay and institutional violence and racism of the first order, but there’s plenty of pleasure to be had too. Sometimes it’s just as nice to watch somebody else have theirs.

 

Asparagus rarebit, a beer, and a sundae

Total Ithaca realness: Moosewood Cafe, a pint of Ithaca pale ale, and a hot fudge sundae at Purity. It took too long to get a table–there were eight of us, after all–but it was worth it to eat lunch inside of my first cookbook. I ordered the asparagus rarebit. The menu described it as asparagus over rice with a cheese sauce, and part of me wondered if they’d have the audacity to just serve me that on a plate for lunch. I mean, really? Asparagus rarebit? And that’s what it was, plus a sprinkle of dried parsley. I ate in hearty, tipsy good spirits, getting to know two of L.’s second cousins at my end of the table, a couple of teenage boys. Turns out I have an inexplicable fondness for teenage boys–they made me want my own. After a brisk walk at the edge of the lake we turned in for sundaes at Purity, rumored to be site of the first sundae ever. I wondered if chocolate peanut butter with hot fudge would be too much, but it wasn’t. Just barely enough. (And L. owes me; I just ate the cherry, sans shenanigans.)

 

Chicken sandwich, fries, and a beer

I needed that beer, even more than I needed the sandwich. It’s exhausting, touring number five of the top seven forgotten natural wonders of the world. L. and I made our way up a big hill and my body autopiloted us to one of the casino restaurants. I worried that we weren’t outside, or perched atop the falls at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but L. noted that we were playing on a theme–tufted seats. They’re everywhere we go, somehow. We ate and drank and talked about what we saw and what we looked forward to seeing and watched Canadian sports television and I was too shy to admit that what I really wanted for dessert was some nickel slots play so I pretended i just wanted to use the bathroom–in the casino. I managed to wrench L. inside and we magically left with the five Canadian dollars L. gamely donated to the cause. That is so unbelievably rare, to walk out with the money you came in with I marvelled. Well said L., voice of reason,  you’re with me.