In My Belly

The wife and I had lunch at the Belly general store the other day, for the first time. She had a BLT with guac, hold the guac (they didn’t), with really magnificent bacon and a glass of genuine (read: gen-yoo-ine) lemonade. I had myself a pannini with pastrami, mozarella, red onions and spicy mustard that, all together, really cleared out my noggin. Plus: a complimentary deviled egg and pickle, each worth more than we paid for them. To drink: quite a nice latte, actually. All good.

Later, to go, I had a bagel with apple butter. Not good. It had a weird chemical taste, but I couldn’t tell if it came from the startlingly thick apple butter or the bagel.

As a carpetbagger, Belly feels like a wonderfully absurd sort of New Southern kitsch — the yuppie general store. Loved the rough old furniture, food was good, the cupcakes have won prizes and the people were nice. Yet, at the same time, I was a little embarrassed to like it for all of its yup-ness.

Still: Will I go back? You betcha.

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