So the story behind this one–there was a little thrift store, one of the “staffed by your grandmother” thrift stores–I don’t know her, she’s probably a fine woman, but all grandmothers, eventually, work in thrift stores. And I’m guessing someone had died, and left them a vast panoply of crappy oil paintings. Mutant children holding baskets, still lives of the damned, all that good stuff.
And this lovely little cafe. I imagine that if you’re on whatever boulevard it is that dead-ends on Hieronymus Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” you just take a right turn on Washington and then there’s this delightful little restaurant that nobody knows about, where you’re always welcome if you don’t mind that your chairs are in a river of either blood or chocolate, the walls are rusted steel, and dark, billowing clouds of brown smoke swirl through the streets.
As the fumes over the river burst into lovely white flames, the mushroom-capped ladies of the evening applauded politely. Those that had legs, or a leg, stood in appreciation. The others hoped that they would stay on their chairs this time, and not fall into the river. Nobody wanted to fall into the river.
Texas Thrift near 51st and I35, Austin