Walking in Friday evening 6pm,
The patio seating is packed,
The inside seating is packed,
Beer and conversations are flowing.
It’s a tap beer kind of place.
I’m not a tap beer kind of guy — but I don’t give up.
It’s a pulled pork kind of place.
I’m not a pulled pork kind of guy — but I don’t give up.
They have nachos — small and large,
and I am a nachos kind of guy.
I am sitting here eating
the messiest, tastiest, most-fun-to-eat nachos
I have ever had.
Even the small basket
is overflowing with a messy, tasty,
Yes — even nutritious — combination
of chips smothered with
cheese and beans and tomatoes and guacamole
and cabbage and jalapeños and secret sauce;
And the line of people all (well, almost all)
half my age
ordering their Friday evening beer on tap
as I eat and read and write this poem.
(written May 16, 2016 while eating at Gil’s)