Sitting here, I eat a bowl of cereal which I wold much prefer be a plate of something meat based, and not this flake type product—the kind with the dehydrated fruit that there is never enough of—that I eat to maintain some semblance of a balanced diet. It is a moment to reflect upon the long day before spent of the alcohol laden streets of Soulard on a Mardi Gras, which culminated in one of the most delicious meals of my life. The kind of deliciousness that only happens after a long day of reckless abandon and exertion, coupled with the decision to have not eaten a single thing during 10 hours of wakefulness.
Having walked far too far to avoid shuttle fees, and spent more time in line for a bathroom than watching a parade, the morning's primary victory was the procurement of a scarf found abandoned on the street. Memories of a club and a dance floor are vivid, including a scene in which I became the temporary star of the floor—whether through bold moves or more likely some sort of inebriated flailings that enraptured onlookers, I don't quite know or care—while nobody I knew was nearby to confirm this moment of glory for a man who traditionally considers clubs not his sort of thing.
It was the closing of the day that highlighted it. A meal at a small diner in Overland, by the name of George's Diner. It is the sort of diner that the Waffle House chain is based upon, and it befuddles me that this sort of place still exists. The sort of place that was supposed to have long since been crushed by corporate America. A sole cook mans the operation, and she seems to know every single patron that is not me. As me and my friends converse at the counter, she chimes in with the sort of blunt profanity that we had been reserving, thinking wrongly that this sort of behavior would be considered uncouth. Serving flattened burgers made on a griddle dating back to the era this diner should have existed in, the combination of unadulterated grease and grilled onions awakened an unrealized hunger, and a lasting memory and craving for that sort of fulfillment that far overshadows the charlie horse, bruised knee, and unexplainable limp from the hard day of merriment.