If and when we dine together,
at my house or yours, or or or
any old place we can picnic and pack our bellies,
I will want to stab my fork into whatever’s sitting on your plate.
I cannot help it.
Can’t even pretend I have the want, the will, the ‘why-should-I’ to mind my manners.
Because I’m in love
with food and experience and dining
in the most hedonistic way.
So we’ll likely sit and talk small and smile, and within minutes I’ll have your plate inching toward mine. My fork carefully carving into your meatloaf, swiping mashed potatoes on my way out.
Do you mind if I just…
just that little corner bite right there…
The friends who love me most know this. They share sandwich halfs. Halfs of halfs, even. They let me double my double dip and lick their ice cream cones, thankfully.
A few weeks ago, Karlyn, Camille, and I visited Tat’s Deli in Pioneer Square because they know one of the things I miss most from the east coast, from Boston and certainly Philly, is a solid steak and cheese sub. Shaved steak, not too lean, peppery and piled with grilled mushrooms, green peppers, and caramelized onions. Extra provolone. Toasted.
Try as I might to find them, these subs just don’t live here in the west.
But Tat’s assured me authenticity.
And this one,
shared with friends,
alongside two other subs: a traditional cold Italian with the works and an eggplant parm,
tasted like back east.
Lightly greased and grilled steak, juicy with subtly sweet peppers, onions, and mushrooms, a fluffy roll to sop up any drippings, and a thick, silky layer of melted cheese.
Not quite the same, but close and still delicious.
Because unlike most of the fancier fare I’ve encountered out west, Tat’s was unabashedly blue collar. Sandwiches were straightforward and substantial, the kind that don’t fuss or double frou. Even the staff had a distinctive east coast sensibility. They seemed quick, direct, and though perhaps a bit colder than most Pacific Northwest folk, they came across sincere. Like my Bostonian mother.