October 12, 2003
I like being on the inside, knowing the digestive system of something as tireless and puzzling as a restaurant, squatting on milk crates in the alley with fiftysomething war-tank waitresses. “You’ve got a friend who writes for the Boston Globe?” Krissy growls, peering at me over her bifocals. “Tell him I got a story for him,” she says, launching into a detailed critique of the last Red Sox game. “He writes for the Ideas section, not Sports,” I tell her. “I got IDEAS about BUNTS!” she snaps. She’s off and running to Table Three before I can answer.