Cackalacky on my mind

By L.E. Leone

› le_chicken_farmer@yahoo.com

CHEAP EATS

My new best friend is a piano player from North Carolina who goes by the great name of the Cookie Diva. Because that's what she does for her dollars. She bakes cookies. And she wrote to the Chicken Farmer and said, in effect, "Dear The Chicken Farmer, you don't know me. I'm the Cookie Diva, from North Carolina, and I'm coming to San Francisco this weekend. My plane lands Saturday morning at 11:38. Want to have lunch?" There was more than that, and it was worded much more eloquently, of course. (For example, she referred to North Carolina as "North Cackalacky.") But in any case, all I really needed to know was, well, just that: the name of the state from which she would be departing.

I wrote back and said, in effect, "Ms. Diva, you're right. I don't know you. I don't know where you live in North Cackalacky, but if it's east of Lexington then you are bound to be within easy striking distance of some mighty fine barbecue. If you bring to me a pint of pulled pork, an order of hush puppies, and a jar of sweet tea, I will not only have lunch with you, I will pick you up at the airport. I will be waiting with a sign that says, 'Cookie Diva.' Or, if you prefer, Something Else."

Well, she didn't need no ride, on account of already having friends here, but, as she lived in Greensboro, my terms would not be a problem in any case. Where should we meet? I wrote back and said, Charlie's Café, corner of Folsom and Precita. She'd know me by my tasteful chicken farmerly attire, and by the pan of drool on the table under my chin. And, just in case any other village idiots happened to be hanging out at Charlie's that afternoon, I'd also have with me, in plain view, a plain, nondescript carton containing an undisclosed number of unmarked eggs with the Cookie Diva's name on them. Figuratively speaking, I mean.

"Now, no funny business," I said. "One slip, and the eggs would get it." (I'm not sure what I meant by that, but it sure was fun to say.)

Anyway, time moved along at roughly the speed of time, give or take a tick, and the next thing anyone knew I was sitting outside at Charlie's with a cup of coffee, a carton of eggs, and What Is Existentialism? by William Barrett. That book I was trying to tell you about a few weeks ago, remember? Worst book I ever read? Which I've already renewed twice in order to keep reading? It was a last-minute antidrool measure, to distract myself from impending North Carolina barbecue by reading about existentialism, which seemed somehow more dignified than dripping into a pan.

This turned out to be a serendipitous choice, because the Cookie Diva and her picker upper friends from Berkeley, it so happens, are practically philosophers. Imagine the Chicken Farmer's delight when, almost immediately after the introductions and presentation of the barbecue and ordering of a black bean burger ($4.95) for the Cookie Diva, the conversation turned to existentialism.

And these cats are all articulate and shit, and well-read. "Dang, y'all, help the Chicken Farmer out here," I said. And they did! They gave me the name of a better writer than William Barrett to read. They talked about Sartre, and what Inez meant in No Exit, and whether or not the existentialist call for personal authenticity necessarily relinquishes the individual to an ultimate state of isolation.

"How's that black bean burger?" I asked the Diva.

She said it was her new favorite black bean burger. That's how I knew that she was well-read. And that's how I know that Charlie's is my new favorite café, even though I'm not technically qualified to review it myself. I've had coffee there a million times, and I love the place, but all I've ever eaten I think was a banana.

But there we sat, in the middle of this cozy, comfy room, couple of couches, couple of tables, couple of free-for-10-minutes, high-speed connected computers, great coffee. They also have sausage, bacon, and egg-related breakfast bagels, smoothies, hot dogs, corn dogs, Mediterranean specialties, as many different kinds of vegetarian sandwiches as meat ones.

And what did I need to know about any of it, with my contraband container of North Carolina barbecue, a Tupperware full of day-old hushpuppies, and a jar of sweet tea?

Tick. *

STAMEY'S BARBECUE

Mon.–Sat., 11 a.m.–9 p.m.

2206 Highpoint Rd.

Greensboro, NC

(336) 299-9888

Takeout available

No alcohol

Cash only

Wheelchair accessible