Back in my San Diego days, I spent a lot of time at Jimmy Carter's Cafe, making my way through their eclectic menu. I haven't visited Bland Diego in several years, but Sandra tells me that the restaurant is still there, on the corner of Fifth & Spruce. Here is an excerpt from my 1997 opus, Leaving San Diego:
This is where Victor stumbled upon the core of my daily existence. I was having a ball with my sterling omelette, organizing each mouthful for the optimal combination of ingredients. Victor was atypically silent so I looked up and found him grinning with some incisive, evil comment on the tip of his forked (beso negro) tongue. I blurted, "Shut up, I know what you're going to say!" But it was too late. He asked the question anyway: "You REALLY enjoy your food, don't you?" Why yes, I do, as a matter of fact. This boy has very few vices but, gosh, are they doozies!
In the very same booth a few months later, I was enjoying an impromptu brunch with stewardess Ken, who had an unexpected layover in San Diego. I'd encouraged him to order the "plowboy," which always struck me as a rather pornographic name for a relatively innocuous dish, unless you're counting calories and grams of fat. Sure enough, there is a Falcon porn called The Plowboys. Can't you just picture the lusty, cornfed (cornholing) antics down on the farm?
In any case, a plowboy consists of browned potatoes, tomatoes, green onions, and bacon bits, all covered with cheddar cheese, one egg (any style), and sausage gravy. Ken was enthralled; it was a cheap, hearty meal that hit the spot. While swimming in Ken's praise, I quipped, "Peg, my dear OLDER sister who didn't get the brains OR the gams, would I ever steer you wrong?" He replied, "You really know how to take care of a guy, Irene. You'd make a great husband." Say it, sister! Just don't mention the fact that I know nothing about cars, plumbing, home repair, decorating, cooking, or wine.
In contrast, the least humorous front-booth revelation, which struck me as I listlessly paged through my New Yorker, inspired me to write the following:
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WHICH ONE (4/7/97)
I don't know if it was the Jewel song piping in
or the discombobulation of the first Monday of daylight savings
but there we were
all pretending to read something
betrayed by the extra hour of sunlight
sideswiped by our utter loneliness
widowed late 60's black cardigan grilled salmon slight Hepburn shake
divorced late 40's tan pantsuit pollo verde botched facelift
unmarried late 20's Laura Ashley floral print burger & fries bad posture
Which one am I?
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So, yes, I will definitely miss the cheap, eclectic food at Jimmy Carter's, where the busboy automatically knows to bring me iced tea with a straw before removing the second place setting.
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