A few weeks ago I called my friend Lisa with some good news. "I got us tickets to go see our boyfriend perform in SF. Be prepared to Big Eat beforehand." This made Lisa very happy. I submit Photographic Exhibit A.
Obviously our boyfriend is Jordan from NKOTB. I know that many of you do not understand my love for them. Judge me as you will. We've been in an imaginary relationship for 20+ years now. It's safe to say I'll be loving him forever. Ahem.
"Emily you are so awesomely notorious baby. I'm so glad you are my imaginary girlfriend. You are a rockstar. Now I will sing you a sex-ay song in my falsetto voice."
I am just sane enough to realize that my "relationship" with Jordan is almost entirely in my head so I have no problem stuffing myself with food before hooking up for our annual visit. This is the best part about imaginary relationships. No worries about garlic breath or distended stomachs.
#38 The Little Star at Little Star Pizza
My friend Jeannie hypothesized that Little Star was the reason she gained 20 lbs when she moved to the city. My formative research shows that this is a strong probability. Quality deep dish pizza is few and far between on the West Coast and Little Star shines in our barren deep dish pizza wasteland.
The pizza itself has all the important components. Pleasingly oozy? Check. Chock-a-block with fresh ingredients and flavor? Check! The crowning glory was the amazing cornmeal crust that tasted light and crunch and airy like it was made out of the freshest croutons in the world. Lisa and I spent 20 minutes discussing its merits and frankly I'm not sure that was enough time.
Verdict: Go eat pizza. Bring your stretchy pants.
#39 Puka Punch at Smuggler's Cove
Waiting around for concerts to start is a waste of my limited leg power so we decided to have a little Sunday night happy hour at Smugglers Cove. I was disconcerted as I dragged Lisa to a building that had no markings, blacked out windows and a very uh "suggestively" dressed woman entering the building. She was not going to be pleased if I accidentally dragged her into a brothel. She hates it when I do that.
Despite our concerns we entered the creepy building. Our jaws immediately dropped open like cartoon characters. Smugglers Cove is like crossing the threshold from San Francisco to Pirates of the Carribbean. It is three stories of Captain Jack Sparrowness.
The specialty at Smugglers Cove is rum (duh) and the menu is like a textbook on rum with little piratey drawings. We were instructed to try the Puka punch which was both giant and satisfying but what I really wished we could try was a drink that was being set on fire behind us. FIRE! Cinamon scented FIRE!
Verdict: Who cares what you drink there? This place is an ex-per-ience and there is rum! Toss some back until you are just punch drunk enough to walk yourself safely to see your "boyfriend". Not too much though. The girl next to me at the concert was drunkenly slurring "I just NEED Jordan in my LIFE" to the security guards. My friends, that is amusing but way too drunk. No more rum for her.