Mary and I took the J train to Marcy and walked west on Broadway until we arrived at what I would have had no problem being my final destination, in general.
We sat at the bar.
"Molly sent me."
-----flashback-----"Mel, when you're in New York, go to Marlow and Sons in Brooklyn. Eat their food."
The waiter had locks upon locks of curly red hair that all crowded to a halt on the forefront of his head. His recommendations were firm and gentle, and he spoke of the Faro Primavera like my Grandma speaks of her father.
So we ordered it.
And the Market Veggie Salad.
And the Goat Cheese Salad.
And the Hamburger with fries.
And coffee. Oh, the coffee.
I wanted to see what else they had under their delicious sleeve. But alas, I was completely satisfied. I could have ordered and eaten for hours. Years, possibly.
"Thanks for coming, girls."
"Thank you for cooking."
The Williamsburg Bridge was glowing gray and pink while we walked back over it to Manhattan.
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