Yesterday the Wrestling Fan and I decided to stroll a few blocks down Gay Street to the newest restaurant in the ‘hood. It’s called Pat and Gracie’s and it’s located in the spot formerly occupied by Lomonico’s, at the intersection of Gay and Grant.
I liked Lomonico’s, but Pat and Gracie’s brings a totally different vibe to the spot. It’s got a wrap-around bar and many more tables than Lomonico’s did. I’ve been to the place twice, and each time it’s been far more crowded that Lomonico’s ever was. Crowds can have their downside — like having to wait for a table, which isn’t ideal when you’re just out for lunch — but they also bring a definite sense of bustling energy. Pat and Gracie’s has that feel. Yesterday we didn’t have trouble getting a table, because the Wrestling Fan wanted to go early to “beat the rush.” (Given his advancing age, he’s obviously wise, but I’m guessing he’s also an “early bird special” guy come dinner time, too.)
I got the spicy chicken sandwich, pictured above, and the Wrestling Fan got a salad with chicken that was served in an enormous metal mixing bowl. I can’t speak for the salad, which the WF polished off with relish — in fact, I tried not to even look at it given the presence of so many vegetables in one place — but the spicy chicken sandwich definitely hit the spot. The chicken is marinated in buttermilk and fried, topped with ground jalapeno sauce and cheddar cheese (I had them hold the tomato that typically is part of the ensemble), and served on a toasted bun. The sandwich is moist and crunchy at the same time and has a great kick to it. My only suggestion to the proprietors would be to cut back somewhat on the fries served with the sandwich, or they’re going to have to start widening the chairs for the regulars.
I got this letter in the mail at the office today. There was no return address on the envelope, but I opened it anyway. Since it was handwritten, I thought it might be a thank-you note or something similar.
Nah! It was a business solicitation. But I thought it was a nice gesture for the business to send a handwritten note, anyway.
I happened to bring the note home to show to Kish, and when I did she scrutinized it carefully and said, “That’s not real handwriting.” In her prior job, she explained, they got a lot of fake handwritten letters, and she became at expert at identifying them. And when I looked at it carefully, I could see it was machine-produced, too.
Fake handwriting on business solicitations? Geez, is nothing sacred? Next thing you know, someone will tell me that the people sending me those incessant political fundraising emails addressed to “Dear Friend” don’t really consider me a friend at all.
Every morning on my way to work I cross over the combined roar of the I-70/I-71 traffic on the Third Street bridge. I use the same bridge to get home at night. The bridge is a key part of my commute because it is one of the few avenues for pedestrian traffic from German Village and the south side into downtown Columbus.
On Monday, I noticed that part of the bridge was blocked off by yellow construction tape and some skinny orange cones. When I went over to investigate this development, I saw that chunks of the bridge appeared to have fallen off. A glance suggested that, with one ill-timed stumble, a luckless walker could go pitching through the gap and tumbling down the hillside to the traffic stream below.
Since that close examination, I’ve given the orange cone area the widest berth the sidewalk will allow. And, because you can’t help but think on a walk, I find myself wondering about what the problem with one part of the bridge means for the structural integrity of the bridge as a whole. What if the bridge started to crumble just as I am walking across?
That thought has helped me to pick up the pace on my morning walks. But I’ll be very relieved when this personal, visible, and unsettling reminder of our national infrastructure problem gets fixed.
It’s cold in Columbus this morning. It’s not really cold by absolute standards — at 32 degrees, it’s just at freezing, and a mere chilly precursor of the truly icy days that inevitably are coming this winter — but it’s an arctic blast by relative measurements, since only a few days ago the temperature was pleasantly in the 60s.
When I checked my weather app to see exactly what the temperature was, I noticed that it’s a heck of a lot warmer in San Antonio, where Richard and Julianne and their dog Pretty make their home. Down there in south central Texas it’s a fine 66 degrees right now, and I can imagine walking out into the San Antonio surroundings, clad in t-shirt and shorts, and thinking that 66 degrees is a nice cool start to the day — good for a stroll on the Riverwalk or, in Richard’s case, a jog. Up in Detroit, Russell’s waking up to 36 degrees and a forecast of snow flurries. And if you add in siblings and uncles and aunts, we’ve got Heidi out in Huntington Beach, California where it’s 54 degrees and the forecast is for partly cloudy skies and a high of 67, and Aunt Corinne and Uncle Mack down in Savannah, Georgia, where its 50 degrees and the week ahead on the weather app features temperatures around 70 and lots of those bright, unclouded sun icons that you always like to see.
So, right now, Columbus is the coldest place in the family, a solid 34 degrees more frigid than San Antonio. That’s why the weather app offers both the bitter and the sweet. It’s not great to be here at the coldest location, but one advantage of having a trusty weather app and a a family that is spread out from coast to coast and from north to south is we can live vicariously through whoever is getting the best weather right now. Later today, I think I’ll take an imaginary walk on Huntington Beach.
I prefer the grand old hotels, with their special features and fixtures, but it’s nice to get a glimpse at the new hotel trends every once in a while, too. Last night I stayed in a Marriott Residence Inn in downtown Boise that the friendly woman who checked me in said had been open for all of two weeks.
The first thing I noticed when I got to my room was the smell. With all of the shiny new, just-out-of-the-delivery-box metal, plastic, fabric, and carpeting, the room had that familiar scent that made me feel like I was going to spend the night in a new Mustang on the local Ford dealer’s showroom floor.
There were some other signs of new hotel approaches, too. The room was a kind of mini-suite, with refrigerator and microwave (complete with a packet of microwave popcorn), and the Keurig coffee maker is definitely a welcome step in the right direction. The bathroom features an enormous, blindingly white walk-in shower that is guaranteed to blast the newly roused traveler into immediate wide-awake mode. And the room has two other features that go on the negative side of the ledger — heaps of those clunky, oversized “accent” pillows on the sofa that keep you from sitting down unless you throw them on the floor, and light fixtures that you have to carefully study to determine whether they are powered by a knob, a hanging cord, a wall switch, or a step-on device on the floor. Oh, for the days when every light could be turned on by a knob beneath the lampshade!
It’s a nice room and a nice hotel, but new or old, a hotel is always a hotel. I noticed that this one also has the loud, patterned carpeting that you seem to find only in hotel hallways and bowling alleys. Some things never change.
Meet the “Stroopwaffel.” It was handed to me by a flight attendant as the snack item accompanying my cup of airline coffee with cream on my United flight this morning.
What, exactly, is a Stroopwaffel? The package describes it as a “soft, toasted waffle filled with caramel, cinnamon and real bourbon vanilla.” It even comes with instructions: you’re supposed to put it on the top of your coffee cup so the steam emanating from the cup warms the Stroopwaffel. This presumes that airline coffee is piping hot, which is a questionable assumption indeed. I tried this technique this morning, and thereby warmed the Stroopwaffel to about one degree above room temperature. Because the size of the Stroopwaffel is almost precisely the same as the size of the top of the airline coffee cup, I also strongly recommend that you not try to warm the Stroopwaffel if your flight encounters even mild turbulence, or you will either lose the Stroopwaffel entirely as it slides off the cup into airline oblivion or have a mess on your hands.
It’s kind of sad that the introduction of a new airline breakfast snack is worth noting, but such things are the stuff that fill the lives of seasoned business travelers. The Stroopwaffel is just fine as a snack, but where it really excels is its name. Who can resist the sound of “Stroopwaffel”? It blows “biscotti” out of the water in my book.
Rather than trying to get the smartest smartphone out there, they’ve decided to dumb it down. They don’t want to micromanage their lives through their phones and be totally wired in to every known and developing form of social media at every moment of the day. They don’t want to get little dings and buzzes and snatches of music when a text arrives or a check clears in their bank account or they hit their step goal for the day. In short, they are tired of their phones being a key focus of their lives.
Some manufacturers are responding to this apparent impulse on the part of some people by producing consciously dumb phones. One “new” product only takes and makes calls, and it sells for only a fraction of the cost of the brainiac smart phones. Imagine! A cell phone that simply functions as . . . a phone! Another option, slightly more expensive, lets you talk, text, set alarms, and use a calendar. Other manufacturers are offering “back to basics” options that promise longer battery life.
Or, you can do what I’ve done, which is never add many apps to your cell phone in the first place. My phone functions as a phone, an email and text repository, a camera, a clock, and a place to play Spider Solitaire when I’m waiting for an appointment. As smartphones go, it’s about at third-grade level. In the modern world of business, where being accessible at all times is taken for granted, you really can’t get by without being quickly reachable by phone or email or text, and the other features come in handy. But I don’t want to spend my life staring and tapping away at a phone, or being distracted by prompts, or feeling like everything I do is being monitored and measured.
I’d like to think there is life outside of my cell phone. Is that so dumb?