I wish I could do this story justice for you now, aloud, with great hand gestures and my own laughter to cover your embarrassment for me, alas you’ll just have to imagine that

Mary hides in the unnecessary kitchen, in a bar that wouldn’t even have a kitchen if the law here didn’t require it.

Our skirts at The Peppermill were so short that we had to wear flash pants. It’s not a great outfit for a fist fight.

Becoming a restaurant regular slowwwwwwlllyyy over time. Bruce in Haikus.

A half hour goes by. An hour. Two brandies, and now the guys in the kitchen are gone for sure, the snow is building up outside, and there’s the puff of his exhaust and his parking lights.  I’m calling the police. 

Sometimes, when your restaurant is in a basement, and the building is older than the State itself, sometimes the restaurant or the store or the street above you weeps, and the tears get all over you.

There is something so beautiful in the theater of dining, and a restaurant is the stage for the memories that shape our lives

The Connectedness of it All–as shown to me through napkins in an unlikely place.