Hostess: "Would you be willing eat in the van?"
Me: "Uh..."
She pointed behind me.
Hostess: "The van."
It was a light blue and foam green Ford Falcon with busted tires permanently parked in a bed of gravel.
Five people sat inside the vehicle, hunched over wooden tables, pizza slices flopping from their hands.
Me: "Absolutely."
I didn't draw the van. It wasn't my lot. The hostess--with a black left eye, cut-off jeans, and a calf tattoo of a skull & crossbones encased in a heart--sat me at a wonderfully pleasant concrete table outside lit by a panoply (Yeah. I used the word. Deal.) of Christmas lights.
Turned out to be the perfect place to enjoy my Satchel's ricotta calzone, some jazz from the band in the Lightin' Salvage building in the back, and a pint of Swamp Head IPA at one of Gainesville's classic pizza joints.
