“Pit beef sandwiches for everyone!”
You certainly don’t hear that every day. So, I walk on over to the brick building where a guy was standing outside handing out fliers and telling everyone that there was free meat inside. He looked pretty content doing so, and I’ll give him all the props in the world for that. I’m doing what I thought I wanted to do growing up, and I’m miserable at work. This guy, I figure, didn’t grow up wanting to pass out fliers dressed in a dirty Colonel Sanders knockoff suit, but there he is, smile on face.
“Dude, what’s your secret?” I ask.
He looks at me, smiles and hands a lady walking by a pink flier. Then, turning his attention to me, he says “I do what I do and that’s what I do. You see, this is a stepping stone to …” he trails off as he hands another passerby a flier, this one lime green. “… one day finding out what it is we’re all meant to do.”
“Cool,” I said, taking a bright red flier from the guy. I walk inside. Figure I can’t pass up on a free pit beef sandwich.
Inside, those awful AC/DC wannabes Jet is on the radio. This sours my opinion of the potential of the free pit beef sandwich. Not enough, however, to keep me from getting in line with everyone else. I’m kind of surprised there are as many people in here. I guess free is a good way to get folks in the door. What I do notice is everyone is ordering other food. Me on the other hand, I just want my free sandwich.
A girl at the front of the line is wearing an Oregon t-shirt. I wonder if she went to the school or if she’s a bandwagon jumper. I mean Nike is funding the entire athletic department, so it’s no wonder that they’d be marketed well. She has blonde hair. It’s long, but not too long. Her eyes have a little too much makeup, but it’s a free sandwich.
Next in line is as German looking a person as I’ve seen in quite a while. He seems to not want to be in line with so many other people and soon I realize why. He places his order and he says “my usual for the office.” Seven sandwiches and 12 side orders. Whew. And all of us freeloaders are going to make him wait even longer. Of course, I could be mad having to wait for his order. Damn you German looking guy, why didn’t you call your order in!!! But, I don’t really care. I stumbled here and am enjoying the sights and sounds and actually the smells. Damn, those pit beef sandwiches smell awesome.
Behind German guy is a couple. They’re smitten with each other. Aww. The guy has on a rust colored corduroy jacket and jeans. Also Samba Classics on the feet. I like this dude. His woman? She’s a little fat with big boobs that are pressed way too tight inside a Bob Mould concert t-shirt from his solo tour in 1994. They kiss each other and order French fries with “extra, extra garlic” and two free sandwiches.
In front of me is a smelly dude. He’s been working out or he’s just a sweaty mess. His Co-ed naked lacrosse t-shirt is covered with Greek letters. So, I have to assume he’s in a fraternity. Which one, I have no clue as the shirt has many of them on it. He is wearing long tube socks that reach up to his knees. One of them is falling down, the other is not. His head is adorned with a Phoenix Suns baseball cap. Crooked to one side of his head. I hate it when people wear their hats like that. Of course, folks hated me wearing mine backwards. But, like I always told them, I wear it that way so it doesn’t blow off my head when I’m riding my bike. And I was doing it before Griffey Jr. made it cool.
Ha.
I get to the front, order my sandwich.
The gal behind the counter, probably 19 years old and very cute to boot, asks me if I’d like anything else.
“Nope, just a sandwich,” I say.
“They go great with a soda.”
“You got Nu Grape?” I ask.
“Nope, but we have Nehi!” she says expectantly. I guess she gets grief for folks only getting the free food.
“Nah. I’m a Nu Grape guy, not a Nehi man.”
“Ok. You’re No. 238.”
“Denied,” I say in a murmur.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Oh nothing.”
I wait six minutes. I know this because I looked at the clock while I waited for my food. It was one of those Hamm’s clocks with the wilderness scene of a stream with the water flowing. I dig those. If I had a bar, it would have one.
“No. 238!” a voice yells.
I get my sandwich and leave. There were picnic tables outside, painted red. It’s a nice day, why not eat out there.
After finding a seat, I open the wrapper and see a mass of meat, bread and sauce. It’s crusty and burnt a little on the outside, but soft and moist on the inside. Heavenly.
No wonder they give it away, I think. Because I’ll be back for more. Thank you Baltimore. You’ve finally given me something to like about you.
Showing posts with label baltimore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baltimore. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Baltimore nights, Chapter 1
“Our girls have teeth!”
We both looked at each other. That certainly was an interesting way to lure a customer into one’s establishment.
“Should we?” Joe asked.
We both looked at the guy who just spoke the words that had us contemplating entering a house of some ill-repute. He was wearing a green coat, kind of dirty around the ends of the sleeves. His hat was brown, but it was too dark to see what kind of logo it used to proudly display.
The neon lights above us blinked on and off in blue and green and yellow. Not exactly the colors I would have chosen, but, I’m not in the skin trade either. And, we were contemplating going inside.
“Nah,” I replied. “I’d rather go back to Shula’s. Let’s go Sanchez.”
“You’re choice,” Joe said. For some reason, I had started calling him Sanchez during the night. It stuck, much to Joe’s adamant protests. “And stop fucking calling me Sanchez. I’m not even fucking Mexican.”
“Don’t matter, amigo,” I said with a grin.
“You owe me a fucking beer.”
“Well, let’s get drinking, drinkers.”
We stumbled down the street a little bit further. Looking at the police station, I could only think of “The Wire.” I kind of wanted Omar to come strolling around the corner with his shotgun. But we weren’t in his neighborhood. And fuck, Simon killed him off anyway. Bad decision really. He would have made a great spin off. Not that that kind of thing would have happened with one of his shows. Eh. It’s too damn cold out. We need to find the fucking hotel. And the comfort of a stool in the world’s worst sports bar, Shula’s 2 in downtown Baltimore, Mary-fucking-land.
Another block down the road, I noticed that Joe was talking to me.
“Dude, where the fuck have you been? You’re just staring off into space. Lucky your ass hasn’t been mugged yet. By me.”
On cue, there is a smell. No. An odor. Coming directly from behind us. We turn our heads in unison to check out who, what or whatever is giving off this stench.
“Howdy, boys!” a very nice looking, but smelly black man says. “You looking for something to do?”
“Nah, buddy, we’re just going to our hotel,” Joe says.
“What’s your name?” the smell says to me.
“His name is Sanchez!” I say a little too eagerly. I look at Joe. He’s pissed. I love it.
“Sanchez? You ain’t Mexican. You look I-talian.”
“Exactly,” Joe says.
“But his mom, well, she got around. So there’s no telling if he’s Mexican, I-talian, or even Republican,” I say, this time not hiding my absolute pleasure in the look that I know Joe is giving me, but I’m not even thinking of looking at him now.
“Republican? Now that’s a good one,” smell chortles. “I just want to let you guys in on something.”
We’re now in front of the Hyatt. It’s not our hotel. But it’ll do.
“Well, buddy, sorry. You’ll have to catch us next time, this is our hotel,” I say.
“Good meeting ya,” Joe says as we enter the revolving door.
“Ass hat,” Joe says to me when we get inside.
“I thought I did pretty well. We’re not still talking to him. And we have all our cash. Mission accomplished.”
“Sanchez.”
“Fuck you.”
We go back outside. We’d only bee inside maybe 45 seconds. The smell is now making his speech to a couple of hookers. Maybe strippers, but definitely into showing skin when it’s 38 degrees outside, which the bank clock right above them clearly states in L.E.D. lights.
“You think they have teeth?” Joe says.
“Go ask, Sanchez.”
“It never gets old, does it?”
“Hells no.”
We finally get back to Shula’s. There are a couple of people at a table. Three at the bar, including a single, solitary woman. She’s blonde. In some kind of suit-blouse combo thing. Clearly someone who was here for business earlier and has since fallen into disrepair.
The bartender, Steven, is a balding guy. Only about 28 years old by my guess. We sit down at the bar, leaving one seat between us and the lovely mess.
“A Yuengling for me and a Bud for my boy Sanchez!” I gleefully say, eyeing the drunken lady. She looks back at me, smiling a bit and holding up her glass -- most likely vodka, maybe tequila -- and smiling. I get my beer, tilt it at her, and clink glasses with Sanchez and then her. One swig and me and Joe/Sanchez begin our witty banter about teeth, concerts and stumbling around in Baltimore.
Before I know it, she’s in the middle of the conversation, but it has clearly been steered towards what she wants to talk about -- her asshole of a husband.
Her words. Not mine.
We both looked at each other. That certainly was an interesting way to lure a customer into one’s establishment.
“Should we?” Joe asked.
We both looked at the guy who just spoke the words that had us contemplating entering a house of some ill-repute. He was wearing a green coat, kind of dirty around the ends of the sleeves. His hat was brown, but it was too dark to see what kind of logo it used to proudly display.
The neon lights above us blinked on and off in blue and green and yellow. Not exactly the colors I would have chosen, but, I’m not in the skin trade either. And, we were contemplating going inside.
“Nah,” I replied. “I’d rather go back to Shula’s. Let’s go Sanchez.”
“You’re choice,” Joe said. For some reason, I had started calling him Sanchez during the night. It stuck, much to Joe’s adamant protests. “And stop fucking calling me Sanchez. I’m not even fucking Mexican.”
“Don’t matter, amigo,” I said with a grin.
“You owe me a fucking beer.”
“Well, let’s get drinking, drinkers.”
We stumbled down the street a little bit further. Looking at the police station, I could only think of “The Wire.” I kind of wanted Omar to come strolling around the corner with his shotgun. But we weren’t in his neighborhood. And fuck, Simon killed him off anyway. Bad decision really. He would have made a great spin off. Not that that kind of thing would have happened with one of his shows. Eh. It’s too damn cold out. We need to find the fucking hotel. And the comfort of a stool in the world’s worst sports bar, Shula’s 2 in downtown Baltimore, Mary-fucking-land.
Another block down the road, I noticed that Joe was talking to me.
“Dude, where the fuck have you been? You’re just staring off into space. Lucky your ass hasn’t been mugged yet. By me.”
On cue, there is a smell. No. An odor. Coming directly from behind us. We turn our heads in unison to check out who, what or whatever is giving off this stench.
“Howdy, boys!” a very nice looking, but smelly black man says. “You looking for something to do?”
“Nah, buddy, we’re just going to our hotel,” Joe says.
“What’s your name?” the smell says to me.
“His name is Sanchez!” I say a little too eagerly. I look at Joe. He’s pissed. I love it.
“Sanchez? You ain’t Mexican. You look I-talian.”
“Exactly,” Joe says.
“But his mom, well, she got around. So there’s no telling if he’s Mexican, I-talian, or even Republican,” I say, this time not hiding my absolute pleasure in the look that I know Joe is giving me, but I’m not even thinking of looking at him now.
“Republican? Now that’s a good one,” smell chortles. “I just want to let you guys in on something.”
We’re now in front of the Hyatt. It’s not our hotel. But it’ll do.
“Well, buddy, sorry. You’ll have to catch us next time, this is our hotel,” I say.
“Good meeting ya,” Joe says as we enter the revolving door.
“Ass hat,” Joe says to me when we get inside.
“I thought I did pretty well. We’re not still talking to him. And we have all our cash. Mission accomplished.”
“Sanchez.”
“Fuck you.”
We go back outside. We’d only bee inside maybe 45 seconds. The smell is now making his speech to a couple of hookers. Maybe strippers, but definitely into showing skin when it’s 38 degrees outside, which the bank clock right above them clearly states in L.E.D. lights.
“You think they have teeth?” Joe says.
“Go ask, Sanchez.”
“It never gets old, does it?”
“Hells no.”
We finally get back to Shula’s. There are a couple of people at a table. Three at the bar, including a single, solitary woman. She’s blonde. In some kind of suit-blouse combo thing. Clearly someone who was here for business earlier and has since fallen into disrepair.
The bartender, Steven, is a balding guy. Only about 28 years old by my guess. We sit down at the bar, leaving one seat between us and the lovely mess.
“A Yuengling for me and a Bud for my boy Sanchez!” I gleefully say, eyeing the drunken lady. She looks back at me, smiling a bit and holding up her glass -- most likely vodka, maybe tequila -- and smiling. I get my beer, tilt it at her, and clink glasses with Sanchez and then her. One swig and me and Joe/Sanchez begin our witty banter about teeth, concerts and stumbling around in Baltimore.
Before I know it, she’s in the middle of the conversation, but it has clearly been steered towards what she wants to talk about -- her asshole of a husband.
Her words. Not mine.
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