DARK PICNIC

Last night the burger joint was closed. Which is exceptional. Even after the Loma Prieta earthquake, Mike was open for business. The only time I can remember it closed was after his heart-attack over two decades ago, and when he passed away in 2016.
So something might be up.

It's disturbing.

On the other hand, one of the nudie shows around the corner is now boarded up, which is surprising too, but in no way problematic. Anthony Bourdain had nothing at all to say about that place when he visited SF. And one cannot get a hamburger in a shop where there are naked ladies. Leastways, not a damned good one. This ain't Texas. Thank God.

Charred bits, juicy parts, smears and drips, and crisp stuff.
On a toasted bun straight from the gril.
Sriracha.

At times I may seem obsessive about burgers. I ate many of them when I lived nearby. My friend the bookseller had just gotten off work and was esurient. It's a tradition. A mediocre slice of California-type pizza is not a replacement.
Bah. Ick-poo. Forsooth.

The slice was consumed nearby at a place where it was washed down with beer, after which we went to the karaoke dive and listened to dulcet croonings or whatever that was. It was drizzling when we left and lit up. On Grant near Sacramento there was a female person hunkered down on the pavement, looking for all the world like an amogus.

I got home in time to update the daily Covid death tally.




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