A Strawberry adventure into yesterday.
There is this street called Strawberry. It wasn’t always called Strawberry
but it is now and for a single block is a step into history.
This street was in a working class neighborhood of the 20’s with a school and a few shops and duplexes and corner bars. There were no front yards on the row houses but kids played in the alleys and made their own illusions. By day people would sit on the porches and speak to those passing by and at night the seedy element would come out. Narrow streets kept the traffic slow and the only parking was at the curb.
On this street called Strawberry I had lunch today. A nice café, that hasn’t changed much since the 70’s but is very different from when my friend lived around the corner, presented a pleasant menu and black clad service staff with the same smiles as I remembered.
That is enough of the details, now to the history.
This little café opened as the street was transitioning from a rough inner city blue-collar neighborhood to a hip yuppie revival hangout. What was a seedy dive became a brass and fern bar with a bathtub salad bar.
Howard, a guy I knew from work, and I would stop in every afternoon on our walks home. He was single and was hitting on the waitresses and I was just thirsty for attention. A beer, a flirt and a good tip became the routine.
Sometime later, another friend said he introduced me to his next wife at this location. Whatever the story, it has always been a favorite and consistent establishment for fine dining and comfort in an otherwise inner city location. If I were to review this location, the tin roof is a bit loud for conversation but the stain glass and chalk drawings creates an artistic atmosphere.
Our conversations were brief and scattered and I probably talked too much for everyone finished before me and were ready to leave. It was a nice visit to an old familiar spot with many memories.
Thanks for inviting me.
No I didn’t take any selfies.
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