Good Knight

There’s not much in the way of decent food immediately surrounding my studio. It’s an adventure anytime we need to grab a bite fast. Today was no disappointment.

The BBQ joint up the street was on the radar. Upon pulling in the lot, a sign tells you you’re in the right place.
Walk in, and it’s a literal jungle of manliness. At least, I think that’s a good description.
Not exactly my preference to dine with dead animals, but by no means should I think I’m in the wrong place for good barbeque.
Brisket, fried okra and a baked potato in tote, I carried my restaurant-supply-red tray over to a choice table.
I double checked the spin class schedule.

As we checked out, the madamme at the register said, “N’don’t furgit to gityesom ice cream on the way out, honey.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You don’t have to tell me twice (when in the South, one must think in cliche).
For the record, you Yankee readers, Blue Bell is the best ice cream in the country. It really is.

Next came the best part. Yep. In walks a knight. Hair flowing past his hind quarters and all. His {un-knighted} friend’s polo read, “Midieval Times.”

God bless Texas, and I heart Industrial, ahem-Riverfront Avenue.

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