Tragedies and travesties on Washington Boulevard

A few weeks ago the wife wanted me to drive her over to some vintage clothing store over on Washington Boulevard. Normally, whenever I provide transportation to the kind of place that is of little interest to me, the wife lets me pick where we eat afterward without a debate.  This is often my chance to eat at BBQ pits, hot dog stands, greasy spoon diners and noodle houses.

Every time I drove over Washington Boulevard on I-95, I would be intrigued by this drive-thru restaurant I would see down below.  I’m not sure why, but I thought it was hot dog place.  I’m never on Washington Boulevard, so I figured this would the time to try that place.

About the time we were ready to leave the house the power went out. We always try to leave a light and the television on for Mr. Jefferson (the dog). Since I didn’t know how long we would be out, and we were going to drive-thru restaurant, I decided to take him along with us.

 

I opted not to take the highway, but to drive through the city. Eventually, I found my way to Washington Boulevard, although it took a little bit longer than I expected. My familiarity with west and southwest Baltimore is on the same level as my familiarity with Montreal or Reykjavík. I’ve been to all of them once or twice.

 

I park the car, leave Mr. Jefferson inside, and the wife and I walk into the store.   About fifteen minutes later we walk out, and find that Mr. Jefferson has trashed the car. Most notably, he left something that was somewhere between an accident and an anger-management issue on the front passenger seat.

 

I’m not sure what caused the dog to act like this. Perhaps it was the fact that I really didn’t walk him beforehand. Then again, maybe it was because the wife routinely leaves MSNBC on for him, which has the dog thinking that he is not responsible for his own actions and that someone else will come and clean up after him. I really can’t say which theory is true. It is probably a little bit of both.

 

After cleaning out the car, we proceeded south on Washington Boulevard.  The drive-thru I was thinking about came up as we passed under the highway. It turns out the place is called Italiano’s. I was not in the mood for Italian food (I later found their Website and the food is half Italian and half diner) and considering what Mr. Jefferson had just done to the car, I was not in the mood for a drive-thru restaurant. 

 

As my initial desire was for a hot dog, it was obvious where I needed to go. About another mile or so south is Polock Johnny’s. While I stop by the stand at Lexington Market at least once or twice a year, I have never been to the location on Washington Boulevard.

 

Upon telling the wife where we would be going, I could hear the resigned acceptance in her voice. Outside of maybe Indian food, a hot dog stand is probably her least favorite option. I find her disdain somewhat odd. She is from Chicago after all, a great hot dog/sausage town. Nevertheless, she does not appreciate the greatness of ground and preserved meats in natural casings. Go figure.   

 

One of things I love about Polock Johnny’s is that there is no confusion about what I will order. I’m not there to try something new. It will always be a Polish with the Works. The wife, however, was less certain. After a few minutes of deliberating, she uttered, “A Polish sausage with … ketchup and mustard.”  

 

Oy vey. Ketchup? WTF!

 

As my wife was making questionable decisions on the culinary front, I was making questionable ones on the health front. Keep in mind, Polish sausages have already been ordered, which are not exactly in the same category as salad or salmon.   To that, I added boardwalk fries, beer battered onion rings, a birch beer and, for some reason, a chocolate shake. When my doctor talks to me about the decisions I make, these are the kinds of things he is usually referring to.    

 

I can say that we didn’t finish everything, in particular the shake, which we ended up giving to the dog. Yeah, we decided the shake wasn’t too chocolatey for him, and at that point he had been good for at least 30 minutes. No doubt, he was in line for some kind of reward.  

 

It is probably a good thing I don’t have kids.  I would be one of those dads who take them Friendly’s when they come home with D’s on their report cards. Just so long as they didn’t come home with ketchup on the Polish sausages.