It's "alas" because I don't have anybody to eat there with anymore.
My church (yes, I go to church. no, the roof doesn't fall in when I enter) has a group called Food For The Soul, where anybody who wants to can meet once a month for lunch and fellowship. We usually stick to our town, but sometimes we go out of town (a bit) to a place one or more of the members recommend(s).
This month, we went to a hole-in-the-wall place we would never have found, if JD hadn't given us clear directions. The restaurant was behind another building; the sign for it on the road was a piece of cardboard with the name in four-inch letters. The parking lot was rough gravel.
Inside, the decor was plain, but everything was spotless, if a little time-worn.
The food? REAL. By that, I mean it was food I grew up with. Comfort food, every bit of it. Yeah, there was pizza. Yeah, there were hamburgers. But here's what I got.
In case you don't know, country-fried steak (or chicken-fried steak) is steak that has been tenderized by pounding (or, sometimes, ground beef), breaded and fried and served with white gravy. It should be meltingly tender, and this was.
Time was, Mom and I would have haunted that place like Banquo's ghost. But Mom is on a feeding tube, and will never eat real food again. Alas.
Maybe I can talk Charlie into trying it. Probably not. ~sigh~ Alas.
Marian Allen, Author Lady
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