Sandwich Eater’s Chronicle: Trolley Hop Friday

Posted: September 8th, 2012 | Filed under: Sandwich Eater Chronicle | No Comments »

The reality is this.

If NuLu gets an hipper, I’m going to have to hire a surrogate Culture Maven to cover future Trolley Hops. So much bon homie, a guy could bust from working the street.

Maybe I’ll get a body snatcher seedling to grow another of me so there’ll be two of us to cover all the schmooze. Perhaps journey to the Replication Institute of America and get another CM who can be activated for special occasions only.

* * * * *

There’s now a barber shop down there, with a motorcycle in the window. And more new shops, equally as de rigeur. Fragrant, environmentally friendly bath soap, anyone?

When I got home I felt I had to shower just to wash a little of chic off. Otherwise, I couldn’t have slept.

Yet the area isn’t all nouveau. Sure there’s the to die for chocolates at Ghyslain. Plenty mucho delicious, those confections are. But I still prefer Muth’s Candy across the street, which has been there for decades. Since the 1920s I believe. So I nabbed a few of those almond bark thingies for the road. Damn fine chocolate.

There are those who decry the gentrification of East Market. Legit position . . . maybe. But anyplace that is home to a restaurant that serves food as sublime as that presented by Bruce Ucán at Mayan Cafe deserves all the props it gets.

Last night I supped at Taco Punk. Funky as ever and worth a taste of your time. Chicken mole tacos. Guac and chips. Good.

* * * * *

Of course, woman about town, civic do-gooder par excellence, ever bright and lovely Holly Houston was there. At Garage. Workin’ the crowd for yet another of her charitable projects. If she doesn’t watch out, she’s going to give lawyers a good name. The lady is everywhere. Smiling that radiant smile. And doing boffo work for those in need.

* * * * *

And there was the sure to happen moment when Louisville proves yet again how it’s tighter knit than a Charles Dickens novel.

I ran into Kevin and Jan Beck, whom I hadn’t seen in awhile. (Disclosure. She doesn’t go by Jan, that I know. But, given my slippage into dotage, I honestly can’t remember if her first name is Janice or Janet. Shame on me. I mean, really, how bad is that? Really bad. Especially since she’s so nice, and I lived right across the street from them for years. Sorry, darlin’.)

So, we caught up and I reminded them of the last time I saw them awhile back. They were killing time to shop for new bathroom paraphernalia at Plumber’s Supply, but were told by a saleslady in their shop they needed an appointment. Then I mentioned how I knew John Werst, who owns the place. Etc, etc.

The Becks and I bid adieu. I walked about 35 feet, where I ran into — all together now — John Werst. And his better half, Marilyn.

“I was just talking about you . . . literally.” And told him the tale, which, of course, as a business owner made him cringe. Who needs an appointment to look for toilets, right? Since they were walking in the direction where I’d engaged the Becks, I walked back with them, hoping to drop John in with the Becks. Sigh, they’d moved on.

But the Wersts did mention as how they were going to be sitting at a table with — all together now — Holly Houston at a fund raiser tonight (Saturday).

So I’ll end this piffle of blog with one more recitation of one of my strongest beliefs about Louisville. On my death bed, the one person will walk in the room, who can tie together everybody I’ve met in this town so as to make sense and peace with it all.

Kind of like Pip and Miss Havisham in “Great Expectations.”

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