CHEAP EATS Dear Earl Butter,
Really??? Really, Earl? Really? Do you really think the source of your romantical problems is lack of parking? If so, by buying a motorcycle, a car, and a parking space, won't you be setting yourself up for the opposite sort of problem: too much love.
As it is, almost every straight lady in San Francisco wants a piece of you, except for most of them. Still, that's a good 10 or 12 good women who don't need no parking spots or a motorcycle helmet to come see you, see?
So ... and don't forget, exactly one year ago the other day I myself proposed marriage to you in this very column because I thought it would make good copy. My being the consummate journalist aside, did I care if you had a parking spot, or wheels of any kind? No. I live downstairs.
Granted, not all women live downstairs from you. I'm just saying. The other night Hedgehog and me went out dancing to Cajun music. Technically, she didn't dance; she played the washboard, and I danced.
In short, we had the time of our lives and in the process got what would best be described as drunk. I invited the 87-year-old man I was dancing with to come home with us, just in case his last remaining unfulfilled fantasy was to watch two highly carnivorous wimmins in bed together, but he just wanted to keep dancing.
Hedgehog and me went to a grocery store across the street and we bought, among other things we might like to later lick off of each other's bodies, a bottle of wine. Being already sloppy, as soon as we got outside the store, I accidentally dropped the bag with the wine bottle in it. Her graceful little flower, Hedgehog calls me, mostly for throwing silverware around restaurants. Now this.
She wanted to just leave it, which is kind of a uniquely New Orleans approach to problem-solving. I hailed a cart collector and showed him the mess we'd made so at least they could clean up the glass. "No problem," he said. "Go get another bottle."
Not thinking enough to leave the soggy plastic bag there, I dripped purple back into the store to customer service. They said, "No problem. Go get another bottle."
Never even checked the receipt. Hedgehog could have gotten something twice as expensive, while I stood there bathing in fluorescence watching the mopper mop up my mess and thinking: "What a unique approach to public drunkenness."
But she didn't.
Dear Mrs. Butter,
That is great. Mod and Kat said you guys tried to go to the Brown Sugar Kitchen before, but could not get in. The thing being that it is always so crowded. We had to wait a little while at noonish on a Tuesday. But then we did get in and got to eat.
Kat had the chicken and waffles ($15), Mod had the BBQ pork sandwich ($9.50) and I got the blackened catfish ($15). We all got the biscuit made with bacon, although I do not remember it being bacony, but it was good.
Kat was very excited about some football league she's joined and says she's never looked more forward to getting slaughtered on the field. She says she plays with gals who have never played football before, and it is the most fun she has ever had.
Mod learned how to do some weirdo therapy that brought all my knotted synapse packages to the fore before the food came. It also made my eyes tired and got me interested in the sidestep, like in gym class.
Kat thought the waffles were a little less than substantial, but I found them to be light and delightful. The pork sandwich seemed delicious, but Mod ho-hummed it a little. And I found the catfish to be very subtle, and in need of hot-sauce. We all agreed, good. But maybe not worth the wait.
BROWN SUGAR KITCHEN