Brooklyn poutine, not that bad. Seriously.
Me and B, like old times.
The title of this post is a reference to a great short story of the same name by Thomas Wolfe and published in The New Yorker, June 1935. The (fabulous) first line is:
Dere's no guy livin' dat knows Brooklyn t'roo an' t'roo, because it'd take a guy a lifetime just to find his way aroun' duh f_____ town.
It tells the story of a guy trying to find his way to the Redhook neighborhood with a map of Brooklyn, and getting bum steers from locals who don't know Brooklyn t'roo and t'roo. After leaving Flatbush Ave. in search of B and his friends, I could definitely relate. Duh place is a f_____ maze. Fortunately I didn't have to go all the way to Redhook, but B did; that's where his friends live.
Red Hook! Jesus!
-- Thomas Wolfe
3 comments:
Poutine outside of Canada! Heavens to Murgatroyd!
Laugh it up, but the first place I had poutine was in Seattle. And it wasn't bad! But in a bar, late at night after you've had a few drinks, perhaps you're not so discriminating. And by "you" I mean "me".
If you haven't gotten sick of French fries, have some chip butties for me in NZ...
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