Of all the things that are too short, I don’t happen to think life is one of ’em. Coffee breaks are too short. Shirts too. Kit Kat bars? Definitely too short. And Vera Farmiga nude scenes . . much too short.
But the idea that tacos dare trespass our gullets on a Shakespearean tragedy level of infrequency? That there is wronger than a Trump cabinet appointee. On a Deepak Chopra big motion picture level of depressing, in fact. Soooooo . . . me and Linds B did a thing tonight. We fixed up a night out that actually rhymed, with taco.
And we did this tasty thing, without trying.
We hit the 511 Cafe, which is a cute little ditty of a jukebox corner joint that’s tucked into the top shelf of Lancaster City’s kitchen cabinet. Just enough of an out of the way locale to be worth all the fun. The 511 was one of our more beloved memories back inside a time when food searches meant something. As in, Cuban sammy something.
So after sitting down and shaking off the cold weather with a round of funny anecdotes, our waitress made the scene to warm things up in Longfellow cursive. Her name was Pixel, and that should’ve told us everything we needed to know about the evening. I mean, besides being one cool ass name, she brought game.
So me and Linds ordered up our friendly drinks, because . . priorities.
Linds B got things running with a rum and coke. I ordered up a pint of Rogue Dead Guy Ale. And then we threw down a couple more twisted anecdotes and we quibbled over what app to belly dance to. And our quibble went something like this.
We went with zucchini sticks. And Tuesday night was fitting swiftly into its side pocket definition when Pixel let loose with her Lit Chick mad skill set when she re-purposed “Taco Night” in such a way that . . hell, I ain’t seen nor heard of such a bargain since five dollar matinees went extinct.
If you read our blog on any kind of regular, then you are probably down with the fact that our “Search for the Tastiest Taco” thing never got off the ground, seeing as how we are smack dab in the middle of a place that doesn’t rhyme with the left coast. We do savory and sweet just fine in these environs, but tacos? Not so much.
Linds refused the taco come on, seeing as how she ain’t easily taken to sweet talking now that she’s in love. Me? I was saying yes this way . . .
After which, Trump’s wall seemed but a Jack Skellington wet dream to the ‘What Have We Here?’ lunar step we done took. Because the filet was blackened to an extraordinarily sexy bit of spice, pepper and lime whose sole purpose? Was to get me pregnant.
We done got vindicated on a night that had nothing to do with food searches. And so it happened that we were duly inspired by the swift and earnest lever of coincidental fever that led us to a joint that ended up talking us into starting up a brand spanking new food search.
Our rules, this next time.
Because life ain’t too short, so long as you bring the flavor.