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Oct. 4th, 2002 09:50 pm
(no subject)
Ode to Deux Gros Nez
Summer, 1987, Reno.
I was a wild, crazy thing with a fresh driver's license and a kickass Green 1970 Plymouth Duster that I named Reptilicus. I had a job at the local top 40 station, and a decent amount of fans from it. I hung out at the Keystone cinema, where they played Rocky Horror every weekend. And after the showing, we all went out to the coolest cafe in town.
Upstairs from an art gallery, in one of the classier sections of town. A purple metal staircase on the outisde of the building led to a small, glass-fronted door with a neon sign above it. Inside it was fairly small: A counter with a few seats and maybe a dozen small tables. The decor was bike racing: Bikes, jerseys, pictures of famous Tour de France winners.
The menu, a single, laminated sheet, was legendary, with all sorts of funny quotes and sayings all over it. They didn't serve a lot; they didn't have a real kitchen. But it was the only place in town you could get espresso. It was where I was introduced to such "exotic" foods as foccacia. Thick, herb-studded chunks of bread with cheese and tomatoes melted on top. Then there were the currant scones, served with sweet butter and raspberry preserves. And several microwaved or toaster-ovened sandwiches, like the Acme, which was tomato and goat cheese on a rye roll. And then there were the frappes. Far better than any Dairy Queen Blizzard could ever have hoped to be.
Friendships, romances were forged over cappucino and foccacia. We'd stay there until 4 AM, when everyone else had gone, and it was just a handful of us and one cute guy behind the counter. We'd go down the back stairs to their storeroom where the bathrooms were and hide out in the dark corners among the boxes and bottles, making out. We'd hang around in the small parking lot next to the building and grope each other, still gussied up in the goth-ish costumes we'd worn to the movie.
It was paradise, those few months. And I still can't seem to make a decent Acme on my own, dammit.
Summer, 1987, Reno.
I was a wild, crazy thing with a fresh driver's license and a kickass Green 1970 Plymouth Duster that I named Reptilicus. I had a job at the local top 40 station, and a decent amount of fans from it. I hung out at the Keystone cinema, where they played Rocky Horror every weekend. And after the showing, we all went out to the coolest cafe in town.
Upstairs from an art gallery, in one of the classier sections of town. A purple metal staircase on the outisde of the building led to a small, glass-fronted door with a neon sign above it. Inside it was fairly small: A counter with a few seats and maybe a dozen small tables. The decor was bike racing: Bikes, jerseys, pictures of famous Tour de France winners.
The menu, a single, laminated sheet, was legendary, with all sorts of funny quotes and sayings all over it. They didn't serve a lot; they didn't have a real kitchen. But it was the only place in town you could get espresso. It was where I was introduced to such "exotic" foods as foccacia. Thick, herb-studded chunks of bread with cheese and tomatoes melted on top. Then there were the currant scones, served with sweet butter and raspberry preserves. And several microwaved or toaster-ovened sandwiches, like the Acme, which was tomato and goat cheese on a rye roll. And then there were the frappes. Far better than any Dairy Queen Blizzard could ever have hoped to be.
Friendships, romances were forged over cappucino and foccacia. We'd stay there until 4 AM, when everyone else had gone, and it was just a handful of us and one cute guy behind the counter. We'd go down the back stairs to their storeroom where the bathrooms were and hide out in the dark corners among the boxes and bottles, making out. We'd hang around in the small parking lot next to the building and grope each other, still gussied up in the goth-ish costumes we'd worn to the movie.
It was paradise, those few months. And I still can't seem to make a decent Acme on my own, dammit.
