417 Texas Street

It's late, I should be asleep, but I can't. Sleep, that is. Hubby and I went out tonight, to a lovely place called Noble Savage Tavern. It's the kind of place that if you go there often, you might blend in with the crowd and become pathetic, but we don't, so it maintains it's unique, quirky edge. It's lovely for many reasons but one of the main reasons is the food...it's divine.

The place is located downtown, on historic Texas Street. You've got to love the name...Wikepedia refers to the phrase as "the normal essence of an unfettered human."
I think I could live the rest of my life by that phrase. Unfettered. How I long to be unfettered.

Tonight, I met some really cool people. I'm sure their stories are amazing and maybe one day soon, I'll get a glimpse of those stories, but for now, names and shadows are all I have.

There's Narcolepsy Guy. No, I didn't meet him personally, but hubby and Rump (the boss) pointed him out with his oh-so-appropriate-name. He looked like he was about to fall asleep at any moment. He was a big guy, at a round table, surrounded by friends and family, wearing a lumberjack plaid shirt. Apparently, the guy's really intelligent but is known to literally slam his head into the bar or tabletop when he falls asleep, unexpectedly, if the conversation doesn't hold his interest. Now, I don't know a lot about narcolepsy, but seriously? If I were to talk to narcolepsy guy I think I would feel a tremendous amount of pressure to keep the conversation lively. Before I even met the guy, I would probably do days worth of research to make sure I had plenty to talk about. Because sometimes you can fake a nice conversation, throw in a tid-bit here and there to fake interest, but if there's a chance that someone can fall flat on his face into a deep snooze while I'm talking, all I'm saying is, I'm gonna have some interesting conversational pieces. Talk about pressure. Sheez.

And then there's Growler. I had no idea what a growler was. It's sort of a jug and this guy brings his own for his beer. The bartender knows him and fills it up...the growler. He's authentic, he says. The growler. He's young, messy, has curly dark hair, is slightly overweight, wears black t-shirts with witty slogans and geeky Clark Kent glasses. And when he introduced himself, he, well, um, slightly growled. Or mumbled, mixed with a growl. He's also known as the Drunken Prophet. Apparently, he growls words of wisdom after a "growler" of beer, like this...THE END IS NEAR, BUY ME A BEER!

I know, I know, the guy's a modern day Walt Whitman.

And then there's Chef. He's a whole weeks worth of stories. He owns the place, cooks amazing, gourmet, Top Chef type dishes with ingredients that you've never even heard of, and he's also the hardest, crudest, cursing-est (I made the word up) guy I've ever met. He told me once that he used to smoke weed until they started coming out with designer weed, and it become so potent and complicated that he became edgy and extremely paranoid, so he went back to heroin. Really. He eats bullets for breakfast. But cooks the most beautiful food that I've ever had the pleasure of eating.

I love this place.

For a few hours, a few times out of the year, I have the privilege of meeting some of the most colorful people that I've ever met.

Check it out, if you're in town. It's worth a visit.