storm & the pink suit…but they have good bagels

By complete chance last weekend, Tim and I found out where all the good bagels are created.  We’ve been searching for a decent bagel in the South for entirely too long.  No one seems to understand how to get the right consistency and texture…chewy yet soft.  We were driving in a torrential downpour amongst the stupid people who think rain means drive like a lunatic.  We were hungry and irritated and passed by a strip mall that had a place called Goldberg’s.  Something in my hunger-driven state compelled me to say to Tim “that place is supposed to have good food!” 

That is about all of the convincing he needed.  He turned down the next road, found a side entrance, parked and out we went, sloshing through the rain to Goldberg’s. 

We walked into meat curing from metal racks hanging from the ceiling and counters full of bagels and bread and these weird looking whole fish, eye balls and everything…I think they were cured too.  My education on this place is not yet complete…

We were seated in the middle of the restaurant.  I was facing the entry of Goldberg’s and Tim the back wall.  The ceiling was blood red and the wall held posters from old movies and plays.  As Tim and I are taking everything in, he starts pointing out Les Miserables and some other old play and starts naming the next picture in the series.  My eyes start to follow what he’s talking about and I see, written above the beverage station where servers were filling drinks and getting coffee mugs, thick block letters painted vertically down the wall and chime in, “and there is Storm.”

Tim stops mid-sentence.  “There’s what??’

Me: “Storm.”  I point over to the writing on the wall.

Tim: “Um…what…?”

I am completely baffled.  Why does he have no idea what I am saying?  I’m like, two feet away, talking right AT him.

Me: “Storm”  I point again at the word and then my eyes move slightly to the right and see the picture painted on the wall next to the vertical letters.

It’s a guy.  Holding two trash can lids, in a stance that suggests he is about to clang them together.

Me: “Stomp.  I meant Stomp”

Tim started laughing.  As I turned back to face the table in defeat, I see someone walking in the door.  I don’t normally do this and  Tim sees my eyes get a big, “what in the world?” look.  He starts giving me the “are you gonna tell me or what??” face. I just keep staring past him.  Finally, what has captured my attention walks about two inches away from Tim.

This little old lady, no bigger than 5’1, had waltzed her way into Goldberg’s wearing the hottest pink rain slicker I have ever seen.  When she made her way past Tim, half of his face turned red just from the amount of brightness her coat was emitting.  Rainy day no more inside our little eatery.  I needn’t say more.  He got it.

The pink lady’s husband walked in about twenty paces behind, wearing a black coat and dark pants with a resigned look that said, “I know.  Don’t even ask me where she found the thing.  I had to wear blinders while I was driving.  But I had no choice.  It was the pink suit or no breakfast.”

We’re going back.


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