Our convertible awaits to be ridden off, wait for it, into the sunset, honestly, like a modern day ‘Western’. Into the West we gallop, then canter, easing into a broken trot as we try to master the myriad of freeways separating us from Hollywood, our destination on this momentous 40 hour day, courtesy of crossing the International Date Line, it is still Wednesday.
We top off the longest day ever by collapsing into the nearest gastronomical fixture, anything but plane plain food! With low expectations, El Compadre surprises and tantalizes with a complex list of margaritas we are unable to decipher. We fall into the tried and trusted, reliable, though far less forward thinking, traveler friendly phrase ‘I’ll have what they’re having’.
The portions are as big as the personalities we think we have sighted ‘Isn’t he that singer?’, ‘Wasn’t she in that movie?’, this is LA after all. The advice ‘never eat anything bigger than your head’ comes into its own when you are living amongst burgers bigger than SUV’s and burrito’s you could comfortably seat your entire family upon.
We debate the plausibility of the All American, jumbo upgrade, would you like fries with that, 20% tip and succumb to the culture. The kitsch establishment, with the non assuming quite door and bustling interior, had gently guided our feet onto terra firma and bought our stomachs to rest in this, our new home for a time,
The haze from eating to sleep is dense and I barely notice the conversion...S
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