| rev:text
| - The second time in my life that I ate steak I ate it at Angelo's. This was not a mistake.
Approaching the place from the front stacks of pizza boxes on the right hand side glare through the window if there is any sort of light outside. I guess no one wants to steal those. Walking in I nearly miss the black and white portrait of the Corleone family on the wall. Nice touch. We're in Sicily now.
The cashier let me stand far away as i decided. Somehow I like the space and waded there for moments longer than I needed. But, in fairness, after being a vegetarian all through college and only having steak once in my life, last month, I was making a difficult decision.
I ordered two half hoagies. One steak and one Italian. My friend Dave was supposed to be on this excursion with me, but he had to help his dad so I decided to get him a sandwich. Like I do with books (which Dave and I both love more than people) I don't decide which sandwich to eat or whether I will give Dave one or not. I do not get cheese on one of them because I am rather lactose intolerant. I do not get cheese on the steak hoagie, in order to trick my subconscious into thinking that I had a choice but simultaneously letting it know that I will be eating the steak. It all worked out.
I bit into this sandwich while reading about food. I'm not sure if the moment could have been better, reviewing some Amiri Baraka essay on African American food culture and biting into my warm, soft hoagie. So well blended together, each ingredient holding each other like lost lovers, I began to fear that somehow I had not been heard and there was cheese on the hoagie. I opened it up.
Nothing lay between those Italian bread slices but steak, Italian dressing, onions that looked seasoned, peppered, lettuce, and tomato. I think, "Is that crack or cracked pepper?" I'm not a believer in such great things unearned.
I look at the spotless red floor and then up to the open kitchen with the chef wearing a Steelers t-shirt with a "7" on it for Big Ben. He got sauce on it and almost looked as if he would faint. I wonder about that.
The cashier and the sandwich girl are the only ones who wear uniforms: a company t-shirt. I wish that I could wear short black shorts to work with a half apron that made it seem as if I had no bottoms at all.
The chef slings a pizza out of the oven into an Italy colored box. I grip mushrooms, tomato, and warm lettuce from my paper wrapping, to finish. I've never found a better way to be a part of this city than to find a sandwich shop unique to the neighborhood. Perfect. My stomach still agrees with itself: no more steak.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)