CHEAP EATS This Cheap Eats column is going to be the most carefully researched and least relevant Cheap Eats column I ever wrote, just to warn you.
I woke up early.
I threw some clothes into a bag. I threw a half a stick of salami, a chunk of cheese, a knife, and a couple of leftover bagels into another bag, and put it into the same bag with my clothes.
I walked to BART, took BART downtown, a bus to Oakland, a train to Bakersfield, and another bus to Los Angeles, where I have spent the last 24 hours flicking poppy seeds off of my arms and legs, picking them out of my belly button, brushing them out of my hair, and grinding them out of my butt crack.
For the latter I did have help. Ladies and gentlemen, of all the straight men and German posers I have ever befriended and/or bebonked, never have I ever once been treated with more sweetness and chivalry, or fucked harder, than I was by this L.A. lesbian chick I was trying to tell you about.
Problem: I like it soft, and slow.
And there was some of that too, but I knew from the moment she picked me up at the train station with a big colorful bouquet of flowers, then raced me real fast around town in her cool, dark green sports car, talking beautifully with me and laughing and gesticulating, meanwhile receiving and responding to text messages with her other hand ... I knew. I was in for a ride, a wild one, and would not be sorry I came.
Her cozy, cool Hollywood apartment was filled with tulips, my favorite she'd asked! In fact, she'd gotten me more flowers than all my previous lovers (in this millennium) ever got me, combined. In the bathroom there was a towel and washcloth, a fresh bar of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, all piled neatly under a cute card with my name on it, and three more tulips.
Hollywood drew me a bubble bath, and I washed all those trains and busses off of me, dried, and dressed in my favorite new brown skirt and cool lacy brown print shirt, plus 2 million, 500,000 poppy seeds.
Then, as promised, she took me to Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles.
But I forgot to mention that when I came out of the bathroom, she greeted me with a file folder full of information about Roscoe's in particular, and chicken & waffles in general. Which was not only unnecessary but impressive, considering she'd never been to Roscoe's, or had chicken and waffles together on the same plate, and would clearly have preferred to take me to Animal, or any of about a hundred other shall-we-say higher-brow L.A. eateries she'd mentioned in her e-mails and in conversation.
No, but I had to know about the legend, the original, the Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles, which I am sad, sorry, and chagrinned to report sucks.
The waffle was mush and the fried chicken was dead-dry and I'm talking about the juiciest of jucies, the thigh. The worst chicken and waffles I've ever had in the whole history of the San Francisco Bay Area was 10 times better than the legendary original Roscoe's in Hollywood, proving yet again that authenticity is overrated, or that we do everything pretty much better than pretty much everyone else in the world, give or take pizza.
As if she needs another workout, my new friend and new favorite lover is with her personal trainer and I am sitting at her desk in my underwear, writing real fast so when she comes back we can go eat at five or six better L.A. restaurants.
Which I promise not to write about.
Tomorrow early I will wake up before it's light out, make her bacon and coffee, make her French toast, make her drive me back to Union Station, then bus, train, bus, BART, and walk back home. And next week, I promise, you will read about at least one of San Francisco's recent rash of chicken-and-waffle spin-offs.