No matter how hard I try, I can't stop eating. K has learned to schedule activities around a meal. "We're meeting so-and-so at 11 and then we can walk to the lunch spot. OK?" I nod and begin daydreaming.
This time our walk brought us to B Star, which I believe is an outgrowth of the still hugely popular Burma Superstar a block over. Haven't been there in a decade, and I'm sure it's still quite good.
But the mojo I think is now at B Star. I couldn't quite figure out what to get, which is something that happens, like, never. Should I have a soft-shell po' boy or the mango salsa tacos? Can one eat too much soft-shell crab, or too many tacos? (I still drool at the memory of the crab I had on our honeymoon in Maryland, pulled out of the water 15 feet from my table the minute I ordered it. Then there was the taco stand, rather a taco lot, at Santa Monica and Vermont in L.A., which had the handwritten sign in Spanish that said, and I'm paraphrasing, "Please bear with us. We are working to comply with the city health department." Everything there was $1.)
K had the French toast with Nutella and strawberries.
I had the pork belly with white beans and bok choy.
I asked for a bit of Sriracha. Not even a grain of jasmine rice was left over.
Lunch or brunch or what have you, we won't be doing Q. We're not ready to splurge on Philippe's Clementine. The B is our shiny new thing.
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