Awfully hungry. Catty corner TexMex and here's Tex smothered with gravy.
There was a real Tex at Memorial Hospital in Manhattan. In surgery. Really.
He was what used to be called a Type A. Head orderly; kept things rolling.
We'd chat when I had to park elevator for move downstairs to ICU recovery.
Later, I'd usually go straight home. Saving money for school. No clubs.
That was the East Side. Usually walk down 1st Avenue to 59th Street.
Hop on train. Gather they've finally got 2nd Avenue line done. Deep.
Others were trench and cover jobs for the most part. Not Texaz, boys.
Nothing against them; not that there's anything wrong with it. Ugh.
Anyhow, plenty of food to home and expect to be settled down by 2000.
Getting into French bonkers pretty good. (Done there, been that.) Intense.
No time to cook off anything this evening. What would Savarin say?
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