At least not on an honest day.
Not a complaint, merely an obvious observation which will shortly become relevant.
When I'm not at the gym, I'm sitting at a desk, and because most else fails, I often sit eating. Cheesecake. Po-boys. Pizza. Tiramasu. Creme Brulee. Argentine Breakfast. Sliders. Shakes. Lattes. Smoothies.
I've maintained a diet that would alienate even the most posthumous prince, and for the sake of perspective, enjoyed every morsel.
In order to keep my cuisine cravings fresh suggestions are always accepted. The more hot spot names I accrue, the more I appear to be a man about town. I become regular at places like Cafe Brasil because the familiar faces match the consistent satisfaction, while feeling extra enlightened.
A friend suggested I bust my Grecian-cherry at Niko Niko's. A Greek/American spot that has always held a degree of intrigue in my eyes. I arrived to spy beautiful misses leaving and I knew what that meant.
Wherever there are beautiful women follows trouble or a good time. Which are often the same.
I sat with gyro glued to my lips, and began to think about my next blog, when the undertones of Spanish conversations quickly became over. I noticed 6 or so workers speaking Spanish as they sat at a table. They must have been on break, because they were greeting 6 or so more workers who entered.
Meanwhile, a news flash for the immigration uprisings in Arizona flashed across the tele.
I reflected on the meals I've eaten in the past two months, and the faces that lurked in labor in view of kitchen cutaways.
All of a Latino Persuasion.
The majority of the eateries were prepared by, most likely, Mexicans. The cakes. The pastries. The panini. The gyro. They may be Greco, but they were made in America by Mexicans. And they're the best cooks ever.
News Flash: I'm Hungry