All is bacon

Necessitating couples therapy and so forth

CHEAP EATS I had lunch with my agent, and then we talked all afternoon and wound up going to a party together. One interesting thing is that I don't have an agent. I haven't had an agent since the early '90s.

"Write a novel. Write a novel. Write a novel," my old ex-agent used to say, because of course she couldn't sell my short story collection.

So I wrote a novel, and she couldn't sell it. In fact, she didn't try. She read my manuscript and very efficiently dropped me, I think because my main character, who was pole-vaulting over a prison wall at the time, lost her nerve and, as a result, wound up suspended in the air for days — up over the barbed wire there, like a flag. As I recall, she was attempting to break into the prison. So that might have had something to do with it.

Anyway, I have never had an agent since then. Nor have I exactly needed one, thanks to my friend who isn't my agent, but did help me get two of my books published in exchange for steak dinners. Which ... I'm not sure, come to think of it, that I wouldn't have gotten off easier at 15 percent.

Anyanyway, in a heroic effort to remind me to write another book, she came over. She brought me four books and a really pretty bra that doesn't fit, but looks nice hanging from a hook in my closet. And then, as if that all wasn't inspirational enough, she took me to lunch at Limon Rotisserie.

Where, though it is by no means a downscale establishment, you can eat half of an amazing chicken with two awesome sides for under $10!! Until they see themselves in Cheap Eats and raise the prices, that is.

In the interim, this will be my new favorite restaurant.

And my secret agent lady (slash) literary yenta Sally, or Sal the Pork Chop (as I call her for short) is my new favorite person — not only for bringing me book ideas that come with an editor already attached, and bras. This chick loves pork so much she dates a cop! With a pet pig! I mean, a cop with a pet pig!

Oh, but it ain't so simple as it sounds. Get this. Um. Well, hmm, so the pig itself is technically the police officer's ex's pet. He has custody. So let me see if I can say this without scrapping my last little shred of journalistic integrity ...

Yes! You know how I sometimes substitute the word bacon for anything else in life that is divine and wonderful, such as good news, an amazing time, or love itself? In which case, one's lover might also be described (by me) as their bacon. Right? Okay then. So one way of describing the situation would be that the pig's ex-bacon's pig is coming between the pig and the pork chop.

Necessitating couples therapy and so forth.

So I got to hear all about that, and she got to hear all about the other thing. But before I forget about this ...

The rotisseried chicken at Limon, in addition to being the best bargain on the menu, is marinated in something heavenly, rubbed by pure herbal bliss, and spin-roasted to perfection. In other words, it's bacon.

We also had the ceviche mixto, which was shrimp, calamari, and halibut, and delicious — but, to warn you, it's a small plate for the same price as half a chicken.

For our sides we chose vegetales salteados and yuca frita — that's the fried cassava root, and I've had it before elsewhere, but never as good as this. Perfectly seasoned, crunchy outside, and soft-centered. And the other one was just different-colored string beans, but it tasted like, like, different-colored bacon, or something.

I love it when something simple, like beans, makes you want to sing or write poetry and books. We were walking. There was a special police car with a big white star on it — Special Task Something Something — blocking the crosswalk.

"You don't look special," Sal the Pork Chop sassed into the passenger cop's open window.

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