Every other Thursday our department, at company expense, orders from Green Mill. One wanders and varies among the offerings of the menu, but eventually will settle down. It used to be you could get a chipotle burger from Green Mill that ranked among the best, along with the black and blue burger from Applebee’s and the outstanding and peerless bacon cheeseburger at Old Chicago – for which the only competition was the guacamole burger at the now defunct Coyote Grill (a dive that died of lousy service, and, speaking of defunct, I didn’t go to the cattle company more than 3 times but they had a good something burger there too). Nowadays, however, you can’t. What some of my fellows at work have discovered, though, is the desert fire pasta. Some get it straight but some of us order DFP/Chix/no mush, substituting the shrimp. I look forward to it exceedingly. I usually don’t have supper that day either. I usually eat lunch at 10AM but on these Thursdays I have to wait till noon. It makes it all the better.
Another thing I keep looking forward to is Stannard’s two volume biography of Evelyn Waugh. These solid tomes are sitting on my dresser beside the yellow lamp with the blue shade and calling to me. I feel like taking a picture of them they are so sightly. I’ve had them for more than a month and it is very nearly time to start on them. I’ve been finishing Chesterton’s Flying Inn which was interrupted by three volumes of Lukacs – Lukacs was irresistible. But soon the Flying Inn will be over, very soon, perhaps even tonight. I can’t tell you with what eagerness I look forward, not to missionary biographies, not to political biographies, but to the biographies of men of letters, especially those of the twentieth century.