Tin Fork
Here’s one for the military. Looks like IB’s loss could be North Island’s gain. My favorite BBQ trailer is heading thataway, for Navy eyes only. And that’s one giant pity for the rest of mankind. …
“This is what, again?” asks Carla. Her fingers rustle suspiciously through the pile of fried smelt sitting stiff, gold, and cold next to the crispy, deep-fried chicken skins and the pot of vinegar. “These,” I …
I was shocked — shocked, as Claude Rains said to Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca — to see Funky Garcia’s sign being put up above the Sun Cafe’s a few months back. Actually, I did go …
You never know what you’re eating. Not really. That’s my thought as I dunk my congee/cruller/dja kwai/you tiao/Chinese fried breadstick into my Cambodian/ French coffee (the kind with sweetened condensed milk at the bottom). The …
It’s 11:00 at night, downtown TJ. “Only, only Marcelino, Only, only pan y vino…” Carlos Ubario Macias sings merrily away. He’s sitting on the stool next to me, out on the street at Marcelino’s tiny …
Can I wax poetic? Heed ye the words of Carl Sandburg, the poet, describing the rough, tough city he loved, Chicago. “Here is a tall, bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities/ Fierce …
Maybe it’s the pale, washed-green cupboards or the mustard walls or the blue-and-yellow tablecloths and olive bowls for sale. This place just feels like a little piece of France. Right here in Little Italy. Cheeky. …
Pacific Beach is more mysterious at night. Silent runners materialize like ghosts along the boardwalk, murmuring couples huddle in shadows, the odd drunken brown-bagger holds up a lamppost, groups burst out of eateries like the …
Omygod. She’s eating her pizza with her knife and fork. Then again, she’s English. “What do you think, Robin?” She takes a sip of her English breakfast tea. My old buddy Robin looks up from …
I’ve got to thank the MTS for this find. They canceled the 962 night-bus service on weekends from the Eighth Street trolley to Spring Valley and back. Who knew? And I’ve just missed the last …
The shiver. Down my spine. Can’t help feeling it every time I walk into Old Town. Honest. Something happens when you saunter up that dusty path from the trolley-bus depot, around the wooden fences, and …
“This place is run by a ‘Supreme Master’?” says my buddy Lee. He’s driving us to a vegan eatery with an innocent name, “Loving Hut.” “Yeah,” I say. “But we’re cool. It’s the food. Good …
Barbecue. It’s the only cooking smell that actually wafts through the air like a well-flung fishing line, grabs you, and hauls you in by the nostrils. I mean, there I was at sunset, hoofing it …
The guy in the wheelchair sits at the corner of Fifth and G, waving his “Hot Dogs!” sign toward G Street. That’s all you need. You can see the crowd halfway down G, clumping around …
This restaurant is closed. Serge and Danielle. Always liked them. They were Uptown’s crêpe royalty. They had this uptown crêperie called Deli France. So, today I’ve come back. Boy. Be so mad if they’re gone. …
“The Island in the Sky,” reads the Tierrasanta sign. Great. But how come this end of the Island don’t have no buses? Okay, a mile back, I got off a buslet, a bumpety-bump van that …