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| - Bart was bummed out at work today, and he wanted a sandwich. But not just any run of the mill mid-week office lunch hour sandwich - he wanted a true to life sandwich experience. There was no doubt where we'd find this. I said, "Fran's."
Squirreled away inconspicuously at the corner end of the Park Square shopping center in Dilworth, Fran's Filling Station is an unfortunately all-too-often overlooked lunch spot in the greater Park Road area. Surrounded by so many mediocre options in that area that our coworkers are so often complacently willing to settle on - Jason's Deli, McAlister's, Which-Wich, Penn Station, etc. - I felt in Bart's diminished mood, he needed a trip to the glorious little hovel of good food that is Fran's.
Not ones to adhere to a conventional businessday lunch hour, we strolled in around 11:15am. There was no one else in the dining room, just a pair of waitresses leaning delicately across the blocked-wood bar, fingers intertwined, elbows crooked and pressed upon, faces plain yet subtly eager with start-of-the-day malaise.
Bart had never been to Fran's. He gestured an approving curl of his lower lip. "Hmmmmph," he said.
I nodded. "Yep."
The waitresses greeted us charmingly, as they're apt to do. Fran's isn't a hoity establishment. It's a classic southern cafe, done up in folksy art, hand-painted table tops under heavy lacquer, fresh flower bouquets, etched wood carvings, and clever 60s/70s era pop art adorning the brick walls. You feel like you're all friends there, like you're all in this together, like you just walked onto the set of Fried Green Tomatoes or something.
Our waitress came over, smiling wide, a gorgeous creature, tall and well-shaped, broad shoulders and hips, a strong core, thin neck and soft cheeks, long brown pony swinging playfully behind her like a mane. I eased back in my chair, stuffed my fingers in my pockets, and stretched a tight-lipped grin. "What are you guys drinking?" she asked.
I glanced at Bart and his frumpish scowl, then down at the menus our waitress was placing before us. I cocked my head as a wily thought entered: beer. I nudged Bart and chinned toward the bar. "What ARE we drinking?" I asked.
Bart's scowl lifted into an illuminated beam. "Whoah..." he eased out in a breath of unanticipated joy. "They have great beers..."
Bird Song, Southern Tier, Natty Greene's, wine, liquor, more beer. The waitress saw us eyeing the bar and let out a little chortle. "Do you guys want a beer list?" she asked. "We don't usually get many people ordering beer at 11am on a Wednesday."
We shrugged incredulously. That notion just seemed silly.
We each opted for a Southern Tier IPA, and then our marvelously-built waitress left us to our perusing of the menu. As we were reading through the mind-blowing list of fried appetizers, decadent salads, opulent burgers, and mouth-wateringly descriptive signature sandwiches, I recognized the opening horns of Born to Run floating down from the overhead speakers. "Springsteen," I acknowledged aloud, forefinger pointed to the sky. Bart nodded approvingly.
"Chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin' out ov-er the liiine," I sang. "HOoo-whoooahhh!" I rapped my thumbs sideways across the slick wood finish of the table and stamped my heels into the flat of the cement floor.
Our waitress returned with our beers, her own mood clearly lifted by the good time Bart and I were starting to have. She took our orders. I went with the number 4 - a chicken salad sandwich with lemon aioli, avocado, and pickled red onion strings. Bart ordered the Reuben, and we each chose the farmhouse style cottage cheese as our side. "And another beer?" she asked before leaving. We smiled and nodded.
Springsteen ended and we both paused with bated breath for what might come next. The opening chords rang out and we both lit up - Alanis Morissette! But not You Oughta Know or Ironic or even All I Really Want... Nope, it was m-f'in Head Over Feet. I belted out, "Are you kidding me right now?" Bart nodded approvingly.
"You've al-ready w'ON mee ooo-varr... in-spite uv meee," we sang in gorgeous, baritone harmony. "So don't be al'ARMED if I faa-aall... hyead ov-ar feeet."
Our food arrived with our second beers - beautifully stacked trays of tall sandwiches, mounded with meat and sauce, overflowing cups of seasoned and garnished cottage cheese, face-fuming aromas of spice and dough and dairy, like a farm, like a fable. We stuffed our mouths, silly and contented, avocado glaze speckling my beard, napkins ruined, shirts spotted, beer spilled and lyrics slurred ignominiously to every tune soaring above us.
We ordered another beer, had our leftovers boxed, and cleaned up our ridiculous Wednesday mess. When our trim waitress returned with the check, Bart fumbled around under his ass for a moment, face locked in embarrassment and concern. "I don't have my wallet..."
I laughed. "Don't sweat it; this one's on me."
Bart finished the rest of his day in a fantastic mood.
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