SCRUBBED, SCRUBBED

It was cute. A gentleman speaking Mandarin and his two sweet looking little grammar-school age boys stepping in for three hotdogs (actually garlic sausages on sourdough) to go. Quiet, well behaved, curious. The kids didn't venture near the fellow with metal facial studs mildly tweaking to himself, and the meth heads from the nearby clubs and SROs weren't in for late night dininng yet. An altogether wholesome all-American slice of the underbelly.

As for the bookseller and myself, one burger with fries, red wine, and a mixed soda (cola and orange). That last has enough caffeine to add to my alertness, plus sugar for energy and brain food.

One Eurotrash with a scrawny zoned girlfriend.
One tattooed thing just before we left.


When we passed the karaoke bar several Caucasians were singing something with simplistic lyrics and no recognizable tune, and it sounded quite vile, so we went directly to the usual bail-out bar for Guiness, Jameson's, and hot tea. I'm the tea drinker. The bartender was expecting us, and the water was already hot.

Anthony Bourdain on one of the screens eating Burgher food in Sri Lanka. During the preparation of which a huge mound of bright red chili powder had come into play, and banana leaves which were stuffed. Lomp-rys. Looked delicious.

For some reason we ended up talking about sports we had played in high school, and came to the conclusion that we both hate sports. I also separately came to the conclusion that all of my physical education teachers were unpleasant and intellectually deficient, but that was something that I've concluded many times over the years. It did not take the hot tea to spark that thought, merely seeing stuff with balls and obscenely overpaid people out of the corner of an eye on the other screens prompted it.

Kottu roti, by the way, looks like something that should really catch on here. Vegetables, curried meat, spices, paratha, all chopped together over high heat on a griddle with oil.
Add a dollop of sauce, scrambled egg, shallots, chilies. Sri Lankan street food.

I am surprised that the enterprising Mexicans who do the bacon-wrapped hot dogs haven't yet come up with something like that. San Francisco's late night drunks would love it.
Your choice hot, hotter, hottest.

Imagine a garlic sausage done like that, grill-fried with chilipaste, chopped veggies, pinch cumin, and toasty bread pieces. Great after beer, during beer, or even before beer.



On the way to the bus two nearly identical blonde Asians trotted past, with a slight interval in between. Or maybe it was the same one who had cirled at a trot on Waverly. Also a man arguing viciously and loudly with an invisible person, possibly his imaginary girlfriend. Methamphetamine is a hell of a drug.



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