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I stumbled upon happy hour, but I’m determined not to stumble out of it. I do have to drive myself home, after all.
I sit in The Grill, in San Angelo, Texas. Tables dot the perimeter while the inviting, rectangular bar sits in the center. Opposite one end of it, cooks bustle in a food prep area. Filaments at least five inches long glow inside clear incandescent bulbs hanging from long black wires.
My typing comes between bouts of licking chipotle sauce from my fingers. I’m plowing through the pork nachos appetizer, big enough to serve as my entire meal.
Despite the food’s quality and the red sangria’s toxicity, I miss my wife. It’s the kind of place she would love, and so I think of her.
My belt vibrates near my left hip. I frantically clear my fingers of the chipotle sauce and pull my phone from its holster. It’s my wife, and besides satisfying my desire to talk to her, the call stops me from eating more of the amazing pork nachos. Gotta save some room for the enchiladas.
Sure, I’m the only one in here with a laptop, but I don’t care. If I’m dining alone and I have a table, writing just might ensue. I wouldn’t be surprised if they think I’m some sort of food critic. Surely the professionals try to be a little more subtle.
The Grill is a little too classy for me to pull out my PocketDish, like I did on Sunday night at Logan’s. (If you haven’t seen Eric Bana in “Chopper,” I recommend it. Truly shows his acting ability. The bloodier scenes can freak out approaching wait staff, however.)
The chicken enchiladas are good, but I prefer sour cream sauce to chili con carne.
Firmly in the red sangria’s grip now, I ask D about the desserts. After her description, I order the homemade banana creme pie with chocolate chips just above the crust. Just a few bites prove that besides bananas foster, it’s the best thing to happen to that already nearly perfect fruit.
Next I think I’ll walk across the parking lot to the grocery store to buy my breakfast supplies.
Somebody stop me.