Secret Agent Fred and I were scheduled to have a late lunch today cause mornings in general are so not good for either of us and Sunday in particular for dear Fred, seeings how they almost always happen after Saturday nights. Sure enough, 2:30 came and went, I ordered, he never showed and about 4:00 when we finally found each other he announced “I went to bed drunk, I woke up drunk and I got drunker.” I took his word for it. He’s an artiste, darling, these things happen. I suppose we should just be grateful he’s not mixing laudanum with absinthe and quoting Baudelaire.
A shame he missed lunch cause it was deeeeeelish. It was at a new-ish cafe I’d heard about featuring New Orleans “French soul food,” a description that made me suspicious at best. R Man and I had a long standing rule “Never eat New Orleans food when you’re not actually in New Orleans.” And yet, I must give them credit where it’s due, this was great. Silky gumbo, perfect biscuits,, great coffee (with chicory!) and grits done just right. I miss grits terribly. Why San Francisco, which holds itself so proudly up as a gourmand’s paradise, cannot produce a simple breakfast staple like grits on demand is beyond me.
Anyway, afterwards we dug up the only bar in town not broadcasting that stupid Super Bowl abomination. It was a mixed blessing since they were hosting some open-mic-karoke-cabaret thang and the poor, misguided creature attempting And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going should have been shot. Or drowned. Or both. Painful darling, painful.
To settle my nerves, when I got home I turned to the Queen of Soul from the year of ancient history when I graduated high school. Isn’t this perfect? Complete with her Big Girl backup singers, Aretha and the opening bass line never fails to pull your pelvis into the groove. Rock steady, baby.