The manfriend took me out for burgers last night, a favorite spot on the edge of downtown. It’s a bar mostly, dark and wooden inside but with a surprisingly charming patio out back, all wobbly tables and mis-matched chairs.
Oh, and there’s no name on the door.
You go for the burgers and the drinks. And for Paul. He knows manfriend from music (the local scene is more than incestuous; you can’t swing a drunk girl without hitting someone-who-knows-someone-who-sang-with-that one-who-played-an-open-mic-with them.) And like Pamela Des Barres, I like being with the band.
Paul shakes what I’ve declared the best dirty bird. Slight on brine, perfectly icy premium vodka and floating three giant olives. Our second round was on him. He’s a good guy.
We noshed on my favorite burger in town, grilled on a silver flat top, piled with caramel-colored grilled onions and three kinds of cheese, one a happy yellow plus a smear of jalapeño cream cheese on the bun. Best with lettuce and tomatoes and extra pickles (at least five chips). It’s a messy, glorious, juicy and hot handful of love.
Like me. Laughed in that moment and in that place at how much the meal defined me, the duality of personalities, an analogy of life. My cocktail smooth yet with a bite. Classy and sassy old school charm adorned with a designer label. My burger a melding and melting of taste and texture, something of a mess the deeper the bite taken but wholly satisfying in chewy happiness.
And it leaves me wanting more because it's a damn fine burger.