I am busy. I am busier than I ever remember being, frankly, and it’s only getting worse. Barely two months into my first semester as a senior at USF, I feel like I don’t have time to breathe. I just can’t wait for exams week.
I’d be a fool to complain, though. I spend every day discussing Shakespeare’s plays, learning a new language (Spanish – it’s going muy bien, gracias), and inventing or dissecting fiction. The very best part? My classes don’t even start until 2 p.m. What a life.
Of course, the majority of my “free” time is devoted to homework. The standard rule here is that, for every hour you spend in class, you should be spending three hours in “preparation” for that class. For me, this would equal approximately 60 hours a week.
People, I didn’t work that hard when I was getting paid.
Basically, my social life is over. I mean it. I haven’t been out since Bush’s approval rating was in the 40s. Besides drinking beer on my front porch, there’s only one real joy left to me in this world: breakfast.
That’s right, you heard me. Breakfast – the most abused and forgotten meal of the day. Of course, for me, breakfast is usually fruit and oatmeal. Or the occasional fried egg. But when the weekend rolls around, look out, world! It’s party time.
Now, as anybody who knows my partner, Maria, will tell you, she’s an incredible cook. I am spoiled in the food department (and ruined in the waistline department, but I digress). But, who wants to get up first thing on Saturday and cook me a three course breakfast? (Please send a sample of your cooking for review. Serious inquiries only.)
So, Maria and I have cultivated something of a weekend tradition. Our big event is now scouring the downtown area for sweet breakfast sites. And, so that my hard work will not go to waste I will share them with you, in no particular order.
Okay, so our favorite stop used to be Gold Coffee Shop on 1st Avenue North, across from the bus line at Williams Park. The service was great (unless you got the senile old woman who never, ever remembered a thing you said), and the simple eggs-and-homefries cooking was always perfect to soak up last night’s beer run. Alas, Gold’s dynasty was not to be. Turns out they had been renting the space all these many years from a discrete little organization known as the Church of Scientology. The Hubbard-lovers have since reclaimed their prime downtown real estate, and so Gold is gone.
Do not despair, greasy spoon seekers. As Yoda once said, “There is another.” If any of you long for Gold (or just a good hangover cure), then you’ve got to check out Central Coffee Shop (530 Central Avenue). It’s not nearly as big as Gold was, but it is my personal opinion that the food is much better. There are even nudie pictures of Marilyn Monroe on the wall. What could possibly go better with a western omelet? Get there wicked early, or closer to lunch, if you want a seat on the weekend.
But, if you don’t get a seat at Central, you can always walk across the street to The Dome Grill. Pros: You don’t have to move your car. Cons: Everything else. No offense to the very nice folks at The Dome (yes, they really are nice. It’s a family-run deal, I think), but the set up is just not what I’m in the mood for first thing in the morning. The Dome is sort of cafeteria-style, and you’ve got to stand in a line to order. Then, you’ve got to wait, perched with a ticket, ready to jump up and get your grub. It’s a very no-nonsense, DIY kind of scene. But, the prices are decent, the food’s pretty good, and if you’re lucky, you can sit outside and watch the diverse and always-entertaining throng that is downtown’s weekend crowd.
Now finally (and when I said “in no particular order,” I lied), my very favorite breakfast stop – and, when I say “favorite,” I mean I love this place so much, I want to weep for joy just thinking about it – is Ceviche’s new little sister restaurant, Pincho y Pincho (10 Beach Drive). Now, the name of this place is something of a joke between Maria and I because “pincho” means “I pinch” in Spanish. However, my resident Spanish expert also informs me that “pincho” is a toothpick, and thus the word Northern Spaniards use for tapas. The idea here is that they serve little bites of food, tapas-style. This is something of a misnomer, in my opinion, because Pincho y Pincho serves fairly large plates of breakfast fare. But this is no greasy spoon, my friend.
I have had their ginormous egg-manchego-croissant with apple-smoked (or something like that) bacon. I have had their tortilla Espanola with some yummy pink sauce and fresh-squeezed OJ. Clearly, I’m no restaurant critic, but I just love the fact that there’s a place in St. Pete where I can find “non-traditional,” and rather sophisticated breakfast items for (and I am not even making this up) about the amount of change I can scrape out of my couch. Unlike her pricey sister, Pincho y Pincho rivals Gold for cheap eats.
Oh, and it’s so cute, really. Inside the tiny, 400 square foot restaurant – all dark wood, Spanish tile and real Serrano hams hanging from the walls – you will find three tables and a bar which seats about 10 people, elbow to elbow. There are bistro seats outside, too, and despite the fact that this place serves the best breakfast in town, I have never had to wait to sit down. Not that I have any idea really, but I swear, it feels just like Spain.
Okay, so there you go. You no longer have an excuse to miss breakfast – at least not on the weekends. On the other hand, I clearly can no longer use Maria as an excuse for my big fat lard butt.
October 18, 2007
An American Dreamcicle
I would never call myself a fair-weather fan. Hey, I cheered the Bucs in their dreamcicle days, when it seemed that “Bucco Bruce” was the best thing going for us. I went to games when you could actually walk up to the gate and buy a ticket. Frankly, I almost took pride in how much we stunk, as if we were fulfilling some sort of obligation. The Bucs were supposed to lose. We did. And we did it well.
But fast-forward to the Dungy days of red and pewter – like a little girl on the first day of school, we had a new outfit and a new attitude. I began to believe. We started having winning seasons. The Bucs…winning seasons! The Bucs…in the playoffs! I believed and believed – through the robbery of “the catch” and the ousting of Shaun King (who I think would have made a great, long-term quarterback and I’m not just saying that because we went to middle school together), and a bunch of other junk that told me that our time was almost – just any minute – going to come.
And then….Hooray! We are the Champions! Finally.
I mean, I think that’s how it went. I can barely remember, now, it’s been so long. Didn’t we think John Gruden was the best thing since sliced bread? I mean, didn’t we all just know that somehow, “Pound the Rock” was the answer to all our prayers?
The truth is, I really miss Tony Dungy. I mean, I miss him like I miss my skinny, twenty-one-year-old body. I miss him like I miss Bill Clinton. But, oh well. Turns out Gruden really did win with Dungy’s team. Lord knows, his version of the Bucs seems to be destined to go down with the dreamcicles.
But, getting back to my point (and I do have one): the Bucs are our team. Sure, I miss Mike Alstott and John Lynch and Martin Gramatica – aw, heck, I even miss Warren Sapp and Keyshawn. But that’s ancient history. We’ve got to support the guys we’ve got. Hey, some metropolitan areas don’t even have a team!
My job, gentle Gabber reader, is not to belabor the issue about Gruden’s ineffectual coaching and bizarre personnel decisions. No. My job here is to tell you my favorite places where you can enjoy such ineptitudes.
Now, obviously, I love football season. It’s the closest thing we have in Florida to tell us when it might be time to unpack the “winter” clothes (or, at the least, to take out the Halloween decorations). It’s the thing that truly sets Americans apart from all of those other soccer-loving countries. Football is the real “National Pastime,” if you ask me.
Naturally, when I plopped down to this season’s stinker (I mean, “opener”), I did it in the fashion that all red-blooded Americans prefer: on the couch, with a frosty beer and the sweet smell of grilled burgers wafting through the air.
But what if, on occasion, you crave a little more excitement in your football-viewing experience? What if you want to pound on a bar while you shout, “Pass interference, for chrissakes! Good God, are they blind?” Well, in that case, you’ve got to go to Limey’s Pub on 4th Street in St. Pete.
Oh, I know, I know. There are far better sports bars to catch the game action. In fact, Limey’s isn’t even a sports bar. It’s not even close. (They’ve only got two TVs!) But it is, without a doubt, my favorite place to watch a sporting event of any kind, and I’ll tell you why.
First, and foremost, I know most of the waitstaff. Okay – still not impressed? (Well, they do, sometimes – and I’m not naming any names – slip me a drink or two on the house…).
Secondly, they have all manner of cool beers, an extremely laid-back atmosphere, and the most unbelievable broccoli bites I’ve ever had. (Okay, the only broccoli bites I’ve ever had, but get them with the honey mustard dressing. You’ll thank me.) Oh, and most of the bar is open to the outdoors, which is so Florida, in my opinion.
Third and finally – and this is really my favorite part – head down on any afternoon, and you will be absolutely certain to encounter a lively (if sometimes toothless and drunken) gathering of old Bucs fans around the bar who are more than happy to commiserate (or argue until a lack of oxygen makes them stop) about the fate of our team.
People, this is what football is all about: emotion, passion and the plain, stupid love for a group of men in leggings, slapping butts and doing impromptu MC Hammer moves in the end zone.
We are a civilized society. We no longer pack up a picnic for public hangings. We don’t admit to rubber-necking at crash scenes. We have evolved. But, we still have football – and glorious, open-air bars in which to proclaim these oh-so-important grievances about the worthiness of our head coach.
This year, I’m pulling for Gruden. Last week, we slaughtered the Saints, so things are looking up. And, maybe “Pound the Rock” has gone the way of all ancient war cries – into the overly-dramatized land of Time Life Sports retrospective videos. But, we will always have “Pound the Bar.”
But fast-forward to the Dungy days of red and pewter – like a little girl on the first day of school, we had a new outfit and a new attitude. I began to believe. We started having winning seasons. The Bucs…winning seasons! The Bucs…in the playoffs! I believed and believed – through the robbery of “the catch” and the ousting of Shaun King (who I think would have made a great, long-term quarterback and I’m not just saying that because we went to middle school together), and a bunch of other junk that told me that our time was almost – just any minute – going to come.
And then….Hooray! We are the Champions! Finally.
I mean, I think that’s how it went. I can barely remember, now, it’s been so long. Didn’t we think John Gruden was the best thing since sliced bread? I mean, didn’t we all just know that somehow, “Pound the Rock” was the answer to all our prayers?
The truth is, I really miss Tony Dungy. I mean, I miss him like I miss my skinny, twenty-one-year-old body. I miss him like I miss Bill Clinton. But, oh well. Turns out Gruden really did win with Dungy’s team. Lord knows, his version of the Bucs seems to be destined to go down with the dreamcicles.
But, getting back to my point (and I do have one): the Bucs are our team. Sure, I miss Mike Alstott and John Lynch and Martin Gramatica – aw, heck, I even miss Warren Sapp and Keyshawn. But that’s ancient history. We’ve got to support the guys we’ve got. Hey, some metropolitan areas don’t even have a team!
My job, gentle Gabber reader, is not to belabor the issue about Gruden’s ineffectual coaching and bizarre personnel decisions. No. My job here is to tell you my favorite places where you can enjoy such ineptitudes.
Now, obviously, I love football season. It’s the closest thing we have in Florida to tell us when it might be time to unpack the “winter” clothes (or, at the least, to take out the Halloween decorations). It’s the thing that truly sets Americans apart from all of those other soccer-loving countries. Football is the real “National Pastime,” if you ask me.
Naturally, when I plopped down to this season’s stinker (I mean, “opener”), I did it in the fashion that all red-blooded Americans prefer: on the couch, with a frosty beer and the sweet smell of grilled burgers wafting through the air.
But what if, on occasion, you crave a little more excitement in your football-viewing experience? What if you want to pound on a bar while you shout, “Pass interference, for chrissakes! Good God, are they blind?” Well, in that case, you’ve got to go to Limey’s Pub on 4th Street in St. Pete.
Oh, I know, I know. There are far better sports bars to catch the game action. In fact, Limey’s isn’t even a sports bar. It’s not even close. (They’ve only got two TVs!) But it is, without a doubt, my favorite place to watch a sporting event of any kind, and I’ll tell you why.
First, and foremost, I know most of the waitstaff. Okay – still not impressed? (Well, they do, sometimes – and I’m not naming any names – slip me a drink or two on the house…).
Secondly, they have all manner of cool beers, an extremely laid-back atmosphere, and the most unbelievable broccoli bites I’ve ever had. (Okay, the only broccoli bites I’ve ever had, but get them with the honey mustard dressing. You’ll thank me.) Oh, and most of the bar is open to the outdoors, which is so Florida, in my opinion.
Third and finally – and this is really my favorite part – head down on any afternoon, and you will be absolutely certain to encounter a lively (if sometimes toothless and drunken) gathering of old Bucs fans around the bar who are more than happy to commiserate (or argue until a lack of oxygen makes them stop) about the fate of our team.
People, this is what football is all about: emotion, passion and the plain, stupid love for a group of men in leggings, slapping butts and doing impromptu MC Hammer moves in the end zone.
We are a civilized society. We no longer pack up a picnic for public hangings. We don’t admit to rubber-necking at crash scenes. We have evolved. But, we still have football – and glorious, open-air bars in which to proclaim these oh-so-important grievances about the worthiness of our head coach.
This year, I’m pulling for Gruden. Last week, we slaughtered the Saints, so things are looking up. And, maybe “Pound the Rock” has gone the way of all ancient war cries – into the overly-dramatized land of Time Life Sports retrospective videos. But, we will always have “Pound the Bar.”
Labor Day Loser
About three weeks ago, my partner Maria came up with a plan: we would spend Labor Day weekend camping and canoeing. This, I though, was brilliant, with one possible exception: it’s four thousand degrees outside.
Now Maria, the native Puerto Rican, is not one to be dissuaded by our summer heat. She actually wears several layers of clothing, including a stand-by sweater, to combat the air-conditioning in her office building. I mean, compared to San Juan, we’re practically shoveling snow up here.
But I digress.
Because this is the sort of thing you do for your partner, I agreed to this insane camping proposal on one condition: we go to one of Florida’s cool, clear springs as far north as a day-trip could take us.
So we began researching. Owing to the fact that Florida is pretty much a giant, floating blob of sand, there are no less than a zillion or so “ground-fed” water sources in our state. Many of these springs are small, uncharted for the casual tourist, or so remote you’d need a GPS locator and a machete to find them. Then, of course, there are the bigger ones which are so popular – particularly on a hot, holiday weekend – that you could barely dip your toe in the 72 degree water without smacking up against a flotilla of blow-up alligator rafts.
After careful consideration of these facts, we settled on Manatee Springs, about an hour and a half north of Tampa. There was really no reason for this except that the pictures looked pretty. And also they allow dogs, which seemed like a good idea at the time. So, Manatee Springs it was. We had made our decision.
Fast forward to about a week later. We have invited friends. A crew of four was now ready to hit the springs and discover “real” Florida. Only, our new traveling companions were not so excited about the camping part. Great, I say, barely concealing my relief, we could stay in a nice little bed & breakfast on Cedar Key, a marvelous fishing town about an hour west of Manatee Springs. Applause all around: I am the Labor Day weekend genius.
Then, a funny thing happened. I started a new semester at school and forgot all about the dang trip. Well, the plans were made, right? What could possibly be left to do?
If you’ve ever been outside of your house on a holiday weekend – I mean, to even so much as a picnic area – you know what I forgot to do. I forgot to make reservations.
Of course, by “forget,” I mean that I just didn’t do it.
Turns out we weren’t the only Floridians who wanted to hit the old canoe trail for Labor Day. Apparently, all of the rest of you did as well. Maybe you could drop me a line and let me know how it went, because, well, by the time I did make some phone calls (last Saturday morning), there was nary a canoe, kayak or floating vessel to be had in the entire state. And, needless to say, there were no rooms left at the inns.
Well, when life hands you lemons, you know what they say. I decided to go with Plan B. My dad owns a perfectly beautiful canoe, and there are certainly enough watering holes in the Bay area to dip it in, so I made one last phone call.
Would you believe that Dad’s canoe was booked too? Of course. He was practically on his way out the door with it.
It is amazing how fast you can go from Labor Day genius to Labor Day loser. I was in trouble now. My friends, sensing blood in the water, backed away from the whole deal. Maria was no longer speaking to me. What could I do?
There was only one trick left in my bag. An old friend of mine lives on the pink streets down by the Skyway, and I had heard a rumor that there was an ancient canoe in her garage. Well, it would be no spring-fed wonderland, but I supposed we could paddle around the docks down there. We could even bring our dog, Mango.
So we loaded up the truck with snacks and towels, sunscreen, and a couple of cans of Heineken. Twenty minutes later we were standing in my friend’s garage, struggling with this decrepit, thousand pound boat that probably hadn’t been in the water since Nixon left office.
But it was a canoe. Just fifty yards from the Gulf. And, even though I didn’t deserve it – even though I hadn’t made a single reservation – we had the best day.
Right up until Mango lunged for a bird and flipped the boat.
Now Maria, the native Puerto Rican, is not one to be dissuaded by our summer heat. She actually wears several layers of clothing, including a stand-by sweater, to combat the air-conditioning in her office building. I mean, compared to San Juan, we’re practically shoveling snow up here.
But I digress.
Because this is the sort of thing you do for your partner, I agreed to this insane camping proposal on one condition: we go to one of Florida’s cool, clear springs as far north as a day-trip could take us.
So we began researching. Owing to the fact that Florida is pretty much a giant, floating blob of sand, there are no less than a zillion or so “ground-fed” water sources in our state. Many of these springs are small, uncharted for the casual tourist, or so remote you’d need a GPS locator and a machete to find them. Then, of course, there are the bigger ones which are so popular – particularly on a hot, holiday weekend – that you could barely dip your toe in the 72 degree water without smacking up against a flotilla of blow-up alligator rafts.
After careful consideration of these facts, we settled on Manatee Springs, about an hour and a half north of Tampa. There was really no reason for this except that the pictures looked pretty. And also they allow dogs, which seemed like a good idea at the time. So, Manatee Springs it was. We had made our decision.
Fast forward to about a week later. We have invited friends. A crew of four was now ready to hit the springs and discover “real” Florida. Only, our new traveling companions were not so excited about the camping part. Great, I say, barely concealing my relief, we could stay in a nice little bed & breakfast on Cedar Key, a marvelous fishing town about an hour west of Manatee Springs. Applause all around: I am the Labor Day weekend genius.
Then, a funny thing happened. I started a new semester at school and forgot all about the dang trip. Well, the plans were made, right? What could possibly be left to do?
If you’ve ever been outside of your house on a holiday weekend – I mean, to even so much as a picnic area – you know what I forgot to do. I forgot to make reservations.
Of course, by “forget,” I mean that I just didn’t do it.
Turns out we weren’t the only Floridians who wanted to hit the old canoe trail for Labor Day. Apparently, all of the rest of you did as well. Maybe you could drop me a line and let me know how it went, because, well, by the time I did make some phone calls (last Saturday morning), there was nary a canoe, kayak or floating vessel to be had in the entire state. And, needless to say, there were no rooms left at the inns.
Well, when life hands you lemons, you know what they say. I decided to go with Plan B. My dad owns a perfectly beautiful canoe, and there are certainly enough watering holes in the Bay area to dip it in, so I made one last phone call.
Would you believe that Dad’s canoe was booked too? Of course. He was practically on his way out the door with it.
It is amazing how fast you can go from Labor Day genius to Labor Day loser. I was in trouble now. My friends, sensing blood in the water, backed away from the whole deal. Maria was no longer speaking to me. What could I do?
There was only one trick left in my bag. An old friend of mine lives on the pink streets down by the Skyway, and I had heard a rumor that there was an ancient canoe in her garage. Well, it would be no spring-fed wonderland, but I supposed we could paddle around the docks down there. We could even bring our dog, Mango.
So we loaded up the truck with snacks and towels, sunscreen, and a couple of cans of Heineken. Twenty minutes later we were standing in my friend’s garage, struggling with this decrepit, thousand pound boat that probably hadn’t been in the water since Nixon left office.
But it was a canoe. Just fifty yards from the Gulf. And, even though I didn’t deserve it – even though I hadn’t made a single reservation – we had the best day.
Right up until Mango lunged for a bird and flipped the boat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)