The forcast for the next week looks unimpressive. With five out of seven days slated for rain, I’m stocking up on outside time while I can. Another day to be logged into the patio files was today. Well, yesterday I suppose, as it is three in the morning at the moment. What can I say, nighthawking becomes me.
There was more gin today, as well as a Long Island iced tea and some pilfered pizza. Because Josh is a good bad influence, I have been conned into yet another lost afternoon of patio lounging at the Laughing Buddha, Sudbury’s favorite(and only) hippy nosh spot. They also get the award for most inviting patio; all abloom with petunias, gardenias, climbing vines and pansies, daytime at the Buddha is the only oasis in downtown Sudbury that isn’t packed with the usual boorish afternoon-drinkers. In the evening, wee patio lanterns are turned on and each table is adorned with a tea candle, transforming the patio into something almost magical. It is cozy and comforting, and if you ignore the sounds of freight trains clunking past almost incessantly you could imagine being removed from the city entirely. But enough about that.
The pizza was great. A mix of feta cheese, button mushrooms, red onions, sundried tomatoes and spinach on a thin crust, twice baked in a stone oven, it was a bright, fresh exchange of flavors. Brava, Buddha, brava. I am fairly critical of pizza, being of the mind that any brickhead with some dough, cheese and tomatoes can slap together something not entirely inedible, but as far as pizzas go, it was pretty darn good. The liquor wasn’t half bad, either.
Mel and Mario provided the extra fun, because what is an afternoon of pizza and gin without a smattering of smut talk from your married friends? Mel, ever the genius, will be organizing a camping trip in the near future with Josh. Go Team! Possible recountings of fish tales, marshmallows and bear blasting to come. More on that next month.
When the time came, our party broke up, and Chantale and I went off in search of something else to keep us busy. Movies were an idea, but the Hollywood crap factory hadn’t been kind enough to toss us a bone, so that was out of the question. We wandered around looking for somewhere to grab something more substantial than a slice of pizza and ended up at Ye Olde Fratboy Pub & I Suppose They Grill. Which wasn’t half bad, much to my surprise.
I had a buffalo chicken sandwich with kettle chips(which Chantale swears were far too overdone, but to me, deepfry is deepfry.) and a miniature pot of jarred coleslaw. The sandwich was good as far as bar food goes, after I overcame my initial fear and dismay of it being served on a kaiser. I am inherently afraid of restaurant kaiser rolls. They are usually dry, inedible pucks of flour and misery that are usually being used to prop up a window somewhere. This one however was shockingly fresh. The chips were kinda dry but saved with some form of cajun ranch dressing they came with, and the coleslaw was atleast not vineagar coleslaw, so it passed. Will not be returning, however, as I have never felt so out of place in a bar in my life, a feeling that let’s just say I am not too familiar with where bars are concerned. Far too many polo shirts and khaki shorts for my liking. However it did afford me the chance to catch the second half of the NBA Lakers/Celtics finals game. Lakers lost, btw. I inevitably drown my sorrows at a bar where everybody knows my name and khaki shorts are fair game for merciless ridicule.
Winding down to sleep with Tom Waits’ raspy drunken lullabys for the assist. Life is so hard, innit?