(no subject)
There's something comforting about a favorite 24-hour restaurant.
I think the fascination began in college, as a result of the fact that, although we were often up at all hours of the night, there weren't many establishments which were suited to accomodate our habits. Sophomore year, Cate and I became regular patrons of the Essex Dunkin' Donuts. We had a story assignment due in our newswriting class every Tuesday morning at 8:05, so our Monday night/Tuesday morning routine involved several coffee runs. Mary, the night shift clerk at Dunk's, initially scared the hell out of us. She drove a beat-up Neon (really, is there any other kind of Neon?) She scowled. But she grew to tolerate us. She made our iced coffees perfectly, pouring a little bit of hot coffee to dissolve the sugar before adding the chilled. She shook them, blending in our skim milk without spilling a drop. We dosed the tip jar generously to compensate Mary for this prowess. Soon, she smiled when she saw us arrive, in Cate's brown Land Cruiser or my red Jetta. I'd hop out, wearing a hoodie, pink flannel pajama pants, and black Doc Marten 1460s, unlaced. Cate wore stinky Teva flip flops and a blue fleece blanket that otherwise perched on the back of our couch. She asked us how our classes were going, what we were writing about, if anything on the rack of slightly stale, soon-to-be-tossed baked goods appealed to us. If we said no thanks, she'd give us a free waxed paper bag of goodies anyway and tell us to share with our floormates.
The 24-hour Dunk's was about three miles away, the perfect refreshing late-night drive. I was initially perplexed because, just adjacent to campus (actually within view of several of the dorms) sat another Dunkin' Donuts. This location kept random hours, open just barely in time to catch the commuter breakfast crowd and closed way before it would be beneficial to the 2000-some-odd disposable-income-laden, stoned, drunk, or stressed-out denziens of the acreage just behind it. This made little sense to me, but I quickly grew to prefer the Essex Dunk's and chose to go there, even though I had to drive, and even when Mary was not on her shift.
All-hours dining establishments fell off my radar until my 2006 experiment with life in Atlanta and we discovered "the La Vista Dunk's." Not only was it open anytime we needed it, it also boasted free Wi-Fi. Genius. During this time, darling Andy introduced me to R. Thomas, which is about the only feature of Atlanta I actually miss. Sorely.
Did I crave mango pie? Quinoa? Vegan chocolate cake? French toast with sliced bananas and little bottles of real Vermont maple syrup, straight from St. Johnsbury? R. Thomas was the place to go. Overpriced, oversweetened chai. A dining area situated under semi-permanent tents, mere inches from the madness that is Peachtree Road. A driveway lined with cages housing tropical birds, including the world's most disdainful toucan. A parking lot in which I absolutely refused to park, owing to the fact that it was as steep as Superman Ride of Steel at Six Flags New England, and I still suck at hill starts in my five-speed. It was at R. Thomas that I actually sat and had face-to-face conversations with Andy, which had been impossible during the previous four years of our e-based friendship. It was there that I became obsessed with mango. It was there that I realized health food can be really damn yummy, as well as expensive and, despite my assumptions to the contrary, disgustingly calorie-laden. I also realized that although I could flirt with the idea of becoming a restaurateur, places like R. Thomas aren't made. They evolve.
Then I moved to Milwaukee, where Wes and I go out for a drive almost every night, which we'd do no matter where we lived. I noticed, though, that the greater Milwaukee area has 24-hour Greek restaurants. Lots of them. I pointed this out. Wes laughed.
I proclaimed Genesis my favorite, without having visited any of them. The parking lot is spacious, unlike the slanted alleyway at Pegasus. The building is lined with blue neon lighting, which is far more appealing than the blue and orangey pink adorning Forum II. And, as I found out on my first visit, the spanakopita is absolutely fantastic.
There is also Johnny V's in West Allis, which I visited before moving here, on the weekend I flew from Massachusetts to meet Wes' family, the night before he proposed. The chocolate chip pancakes were deliciously sinful that night, and have been equally fantastic on each visit since.
Wes and I have discussed opening a franchise. We wanted to own a Waffle House in Chicago. Clean. Welcoming. With Wi-Fi. Located next to a college campus or a 24-hour laundromat. We wanted to have one of the only, if not THE only, Waffle House north of the Mason-Dixon.
That dream was shot to hell thanks to a 900-mile drive on I-90 and a 2007 Audi A4 Cabriolet. The car came courtesy of Wes' buddy, the press fleet manager at Audi of America. He met her at a few industry events, told her the story of the proposal (which resulted in several hundred hits on our wedding website that bounced back to the IP at Audi in Ann Arbor--I may not get to work there, but at least they gossip about me), and sent her Lake Champlain truffles, figuring it would come in handy someday. He's just that nice of a guy, and was taught by an expert (ahem) that Lake Champlain Chocolates can win friends and influence people.
When I heard about this particular Female Audi of America Employee, I liked her. It could be because the other FAoAE with whom I had become acquainted (if only through vivid second-hand detail) was Audi's notorious Lifestyle Public Relations Manager, a girl who told Wes via email he "kind of rocked" (the same line I myself used on him) and doesn't know the difference between an S4 and an RS4. But I'm getting off track here.
Anyway, the end result was that the keys to a $58k Audi were tossed our way just in time to drive back East for the holidays. Somewhere in Ohio, I spotted a Waffle House sign. Then another. "Can't be," I thought.
We played with the Audi's navigation system, searching for Waffle House locations, and were amazed to find that, according to our expensive press car, there is indeed a Waffle House in Chicago. And who are we to argue with an expensive press car?
I don't know what press car Wes will get next time, but I think it might be used to satisfy a late-night pecan waffle craving.
I think the fascination began in college, as a result of the fact that, although we were often up at all hours of the night, there weren't many establishments which were suited to accomodate our habits. Sophomore year, Cate and I became regular patrons of the Essex Dunkin' Donuts. We had a story assignment due in our newswriting class every Tuesday morning at 8:05, so our Monday night/Tuesday morning routine involved several coffee runs. Mary, the night shift clerk at Dunk's, initially scared the hell out of us. She drove a beat-up Neon (really, is there any other kind of Neon?) She scowled. But she grew to tolerate us. She made our iced coffees perfectly, pouring a little bit of hot coffee to dissolve the sugar before adding the chilled. She shook them, blending in our skim milk without spilling a drop. We dosed the tip jar generously to compensate Mary for this prowess. Soon, she smiled when she saw us arrive, in Cate's brown Land Cruiser or my red Jetta. I'd hop out, wearing a hoodie, pink flannel pajama pants, and black Doc Marten 1460s, unlaced. Cate wore stinky Teva flip flops and a blue fleece blanket that otherwise perched on the back of our couch. She asked us how our classes were going, what we were writing about, if anything on the rack of slightly stale, soon-to-be-tossed baked goods appealed to us. If we said no thanks, she'd give us a free waxed paper bag of goodies anyway and tell us to share with our floormates.
The 24-hour Dunk's was about three miles away, the perfect refreshing late-night drive. I was initially perplexed because, just adjacent to campus (actually within view of several of the dorms) sat another Dunkin' Donuts. This location kept random hours, open just barely in time to catch the commuter breakfast crowd and closed way before it would be beneficial to the 2000-some-odd disposable-income-laden, stoned, drunk, or stressed-out denziens of the acreage just behind it. This made little sense to me, but I quickly grew to prefer the Essex Dunk's and chose to go there, even though I had to drive, and even when Mary was not on her shift.
All-hours dining establishments fell off my radar until my 2006 experiment with life in Atlanta and we discovered "the La Vista Dunk's." Not only was it open anytime we needed it, it also boasted free Wi-Fi. Genius. During this time, darling Andy introduced me to R. Thomas, which is about the only feature of Atlanta I actually miss. Sorely.
Did I crave mango pie? Quinoa? Vegan chocolate cake? French toast with sliced bananas and little bottles of real Vermont maple syrup, straight from St. Johnsbury? R. Thomas was the place to go. Overpriced, oversweetened chai. A dining area situated under semi-permanent tents, mere inches from the madness that is Peachtree Road. A driveway lined with cages housing tropical birds, including the world's most disdainful toucan. A parking lot in which I absolutely refused to park, owing to the fact that it was as steep as Superman Ride of Steel at Six Flags New England, and I still suck at hill starts in my five-speed. It was at R. Thomas that I actually sat and had face-to-face conversations with Andy, which had been impossible during the previous four years of our e-based friendship. It was there that I became obsessed with mango. It was there that I realized health food can be really damn yummy, as well as expensive and, despite my assumptions to the contrary, disgustingly calorie-laden. I also realized that although I could flirt with the idea of becoming a restaurateur, places like R. Thomas aren't made. They evolve.
Then I moved to Milwaukee, where Wes and I go out for a drive almost every night, which we'd do no matter where we lived. I noticed, though, that the greater Milwaukee area has 24-hour Greek restaurants. Lots of them. I pointed this out. Wes laughed.
I proclaimed Genesis my favorite, without having visited any of them. The parking lot is spacious, unlike the slanted alleyway at Pegasus. The building is lined with blue neon lighting, which is far more appealing than the blue and orangey pink adorning Forum II. And, as I found out on my first visit, the spanakopita is absolutely fantastic.
There is also Johnny V's in West Allis, which I visited before moving here, on the weekend I flew from Massachusetts to meet Wes' family, the night before he proposed. The chocolate chip pancakes were deliciously sinful that night, and have been equally fantastic on each visit since.
Wes and I have discussed opening a franchise. We wanted to own a Waffle House in Chicago. Clean. Welcoming. With Wi-Fi. Located next to a college campus or a 24-hour laundromat. We wanted to have one of the only, if not THE only, Waffle House north of the Mason-Dixon.
That dream was shot to hell thanks to a 900-mile drive on I-90 and a 2007 Audi A4 Cabriolet. The car came courtesy of Wes' buddy, the press fleet manager at Audi of America. He met her at a few industry events, told her the story of the proposal (which resulted in several hundred hits on our wedding website that bounced back to the IP at Audi in Ann Arbor--I may not get to work there, but at least they gossip about me), and sent her Lake Champlain truffles, figuring it would come in handy someday. He's just that nice of a guy, and was taught by an expert (ahem) that Lake Champlain Chocolates can win friends and influence people.
When I heard about this particular Female Audi of America Employee, I liked her. It could be because the other FAoAE with whom I had become acquainted (if only through vivid second-hand detail) was Audi's notorious Lifestyle Public Relations Manager, a girl who told Wes via email he "kind of rocked" (the same line I myself used on him) and doesn't know the difference between an S4 and an RS4. But I'm getting off track here.
Anyway, the end result was that the keys to a $58k Audi were tossed our way just in time to drive back East for the holidays. Somewhere in Ohio, I spotted a Waffle House sign. Then another. "Can't be," I thought.
We played with the Audi's navigation system, searching for Waffle House locations, and were amazed to find that, according to our expensive press car, there is indeed a Waffle House in Chicago. And who are we to argue with an expensive press car?
I don't know what press car Wes will get next time, but I think it might be used to satisfy a late-night pecan waffle craving.