You ever see a little kids' soccer game? That shit is exactly like it was on The Bernie Mac Show, except all the kids suck and nobody's screaming about busting open somebody's head until the white meat shows - which I never understood. Was Uncle Bernie (rest his soul) talking about brain matter? Because there's not... a lot... of, uh, muscle between the skin and the skull. (And if anything should ever scare you about your own head, it's that.)
ANYhoo, I found myself at Longfellow Park to eat my sandwich from today's entry because I wasn't trying to eat inside on a beautiful day and I'm not hanging out on a patio by myself. People who hang out on patios by themselves are the kind of olive-hued people that can pull off a white linen suit matched with a vertically striped fuchsia & magenta shirt unbuttoned to mid-sternum and to pull the ensemble together, they wear three hundred dollar tortoise shell frame sunglasses. They don't wear socks and their cocktail has a leaf in it and they call everybody "my friend" and they have a shit ton of money and that's why they're on the patio alone: They are waiting for you. They are waiting for... adventure.
ANYhoo, I found myself at Longfellow Park to eat my sandwich from today's entry because I wasn't trying to eat inside on a beautiful day and I'm not hanging out on a patio by myself. People who hang out on patios by themselves are the kind of olive-hued people that can pull off a white linen suit matched with a vertically striped fuchsia & magenta shirt unbuttoned to mid-sternum and to pull the ensemble together, they wear three hundred dollar tortoise shell frame sunglasses. They don't wear socks and their cocktail has a leaf in it and they call everybody "my friend" and they have a shit ton of money and that's why they're on the patio alone: They are waiting for you. They are waiting for... adventure.
They are not adorned in a sweaty t-shirt and a dirty Tigers ballcap, no.
So I did the sensible thing and went to a park and, whoops, it's junior soccer day. OK. Well, my taxes pay for this park, too, so I'm going to sit down at this picnic table and not give a shit about the game aside from when I look up to see if this is at all like those times when Uncle Bernie took Baby Girl to soccer.
For real. The Bernie Mac Show is my only frame of reference for youth soccer.
ANYhoo, I could tell you in (a similar) exhausting(ly) detail(ed digression) how I came across today's entry but I'll give you the TLDR: I passed it last weekend.
No, that's really it. I passed it last weekend. I looked at the menu. It looked good. That said, the menu needs updated because the prices aren't the same once you get in there.
They had paninis, like a Reuben / Rachael or a Cubano and I know that if I'm going to write about this place that maybe I should order something familiar so I can do a compare and contrast and, yeah, I did ask the garcon behind the counter if he recommended the Cubano or the bacon-tomato-cheese, so I almost had that Cubano but the guy said he was a sucker for a grilled cheese and I said, "Cool, let's do that." Why? Because...
This... is Sandwich Bully season seven, bitches.
So homie tells me it'll be ready in a few minutes and I think somebody needs to discuss with him what "a few" means because that wait was long as hell for a panini. Was it just that they had one panini press? And was it, like, old and broken or something? I got a bacon-tomato-cheese panini and that shit took forever, like there were a few points where I wondered if I just didn't hear my name being called out and my sandwich had been sitting there getting cold. God help me if I did get a Cubano or a Reuben / Rachael. Those things have four ingredients on them.
But, no, it really did take forever to get this sandwich. Literally forever. I have seen the end of time and I have circled back through a time vortex to come tell you how this sandwich was exactly one forever ago. And, as you might expect, after forever, you forget how a sandwich tastes.
Look, it was a ten dollar grilled cheese with tomato and (an amount of) bacon (that didn't justify the price tag). It came with a kosher gherkin and ruffled chips, which are the superior chips. If that sounds like your thing, OK, go, I guess. I liked the decor, I hated the music.
The music was by those dudes who have never lived outside of the city but wear suspenders over their denim shirts and they have Red Wing boots and they talk about whiskey with other whiskey people and they don't do woodworking but they appreciate woodworking and all their songs are about finding either love or oneself or "the way home" under the moonlight at some cabin and every song has the kick drum just doing solid quarter notes on the 1, 2, 3, and 4 the whole time. That dude. He's not as interesting as the alone-on-the-patio guy. The alone-on-the-patio guy could turn me gay faster than you could say "Paul Rudd showering with Taika Waititi" because - Whup! I think I'm gay now.
[holds up finger]
[swallows hard]
Hold on.
[clears throat]
[lowers finger]
OK, nope, still straight, just the idea of Pau- Nope! Not going back there. That's just... That's just playing with fire.
Oh, fuck you, this is Sandwich Bully season seven, bitches. I didn't come here to make friends, OK?
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