We leave the beers to melt in the car, as we walk around downtown Boulder. There are too many Greenpeacers, and one of them gets my death-glare in the face—I maintain that this was by accident, but my subconscious machinations answer and explain themselves to no one.
I'm still tired from waking up before 4am and hiking one of the tougher slogs I've ever slogged. Slugged? I find a tea house and sample a staff favorite from an eccentric man with a mustache more impressive than my own before paying for a cup of my usual. I rejoin my party and we make our way to The Kitchen; I order a Firestone Walker Solace, which I desperately need in the figurative sense. A slug for a slog.
It comes in a giant snifter which appeased and amused me. Tart at first, but then wheaty as it should be. Something else is here as well. Maybe oak, or maybe not. Maybe also grains of paradise. Maybe I'm slipping. My portobello sandwich arrives and it's great but too salty after all the parmesean.
We depart.
No comments:
Post a Comment