so last night, after returning from a fine senior-citizen’s ball where much port (a brilliant spirit, as fit for consumption now as it was for brautigan and his flea-circus friends in long-ago san francisco) was consumed, and swampdonkeys admired, among other things–after all of that, cycling back to our fine house at 209 mott avenue, santa cruz ca 95062, I had cultivated a fine hunger. For several reasons, I have not gone hunting and gathering in the urban orchards of TJs and Staff of Life in many moons, so in order to fill my stomach and play out the evening in well-fed fashion I determined that outside help must be enlisted to accomplish the task.
the wonderful thing about our neighborhood is that there is no shortage of very proximate dining establishments, providing a cornocopia of cuisine options: seabright brewery (forgettable food, will probably become much more worthwhile when I am of age), the excellent engfer’s pizzaworks, a taqueria, day’s market (with the infuriating $10 miniumum on debit purchases–who the hell goes to the neighborhood cornerstore and spends more than ten bucks on a regular basis? again, when of age I’m sure this will cease to be a problem: “well shucks, all I really wanted was a loaf of bread, but I guess a sixpack or two couldn’t hurt either), and, finally, the incomparable betty burgers (not betty’s burgers, which has far better flow). It was decided: a slammin’ salmon to go would satiate my craving with plenty to spare. Eagerly dialing Betty to place my order, I was soon greeted with what then sounded like the voice of a burger joint angel:
“Betty’s Burgers [even THEY understand this superior option], how can I help you?”
I inquired if they were still open, which in retrospect might seem like a silly question, but in this case was an essential one:
“Whatssup, you guys still doing orders-to-go?”
“Nah, sorry, we’re closed.”
Well, shit, why are you answering the phone? Are you teasing me on purpose? He assured me he was not, and that they had just closed. Ah well, I can understand that. On to plan b, Engfer’s. Dialed.
“Engfer’s Pizza Works.”
“Hi, are you still open?”
“Nah, sorry, we closed two hours ago.”
Okay, seriously, that’s ridiculous, you seabright eateries are all dirty low teases. She agreed with me, which did little to sooth my grumbling stomach but was appreciated.
It was then posited by my fine housemate brian that he has a prodigious amount of kraft mac-n-cheeze which we could prepare posthaste. This was a fine (and economical) comprimise, and we were all able to play out the evening well-fed and cheezed.
This last part is an interesting postscript, as this morning I went to the gym and upon my sweaty return (it’s a beautiful day here, in the 70s, sunny, no wind, absolutely delicious) I realized that not only did I smell faintly of the alchohol exiting through my pores, but even more pronounced was the odor of mac-n-cheeze. I smelled like mac-n-cheeze–if I were a cartoon, there would have been bright orange squiggly lines emenating from my rock-hard body (hey, we’re talking hypothetical cartoons here, I can take some license)
Holly thinks I should market this new eau de toilette, and I can agree: in this economy of recession, people are looking for things that comfort them (check out campbells soup stock prices) and what’s more comforting than the violently orange dish momma used to make? people today are looking for security, such comfort can be found in the smell of kraft mac-n-cheeze, ipso facto mac-n-cheeze perfume will be a hit.
after showering, I walked to a seabright salon which is far-and-away the best stylistic establishment I have yet had the honor of giving patronage. gabriella is a competent stylist, but even more than that, clients are greeted upon entering with the sublimely civilized question: “can I get you a drink? we have beer, wine, and soda.” even better than that, saturdays are apparently mimosa days, with fresh orange juice. if the petite bourgeoisie is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.