The waitress was nice and kindly warned me that my burnt hamburger would not be replaced anytime soon, because the chef had disappeared. My fault really; I walk into this dank interior with a vague memory of a well - seasoned burger on an afternoon now long ago. That was then, this is now. The people around me seem to know that the mini pitcher happy hour is the reason to be here. You can huddle over your brew and relive the glory of 80s rock while trying to decipher the scrawls knifed into the table. I'm wondering; does that baby's mother know the babysitter brings him here?
Hopefully just an off day.