I have my post-retirement life finally figured out: a dark and lonely table somewhere in the back of Junior’s, 2601 Northwest Expressway, with just me, an 8 oz. filet mignon, a Shirley Temple, and the ability to caustically flirt with the young waitresses, unafraid of them laughing at me and my pathetic attempts to coerce them into my dreams.
What inspired that apparently attainable goal was the decidedly high-caliber holiday dinner I had there last week, bought and paid for by TLO head honcho Patrick as a holiday gift to his scant team of loyal writers for their year of hard-ish work. And, as you can imagine, I absolutely took advantage of it.