Palace Cafe

Perl and I have started a new Sunday morning tradition. We walk to Murphy Street and I sip a vanilla latte while blogging. Perl protects me from the street. She isn’t much of a guard dog. And with the street still under construction, it is pretty empty on Sundays. But we’ve had a few visitors. No letters though. A big weightlifter type, the kind who has no neck and walks around in tank tops and shorts when it is only 50 degrees, just stopped to ask if I’ve ever eaten here.

Yes, I have. It is excellent. Especially pancakes for breakfast. And great salads for lunch. And the coffee is good too. So are the mimosas. And pastries.

He said he’d be back to try it some day.

Earlier, a man in his sixties wearing spandex rode through on his bike singing at the top of his lungs. I can’t remember the line now, but it was funny when it happened. Maybe I’ll remember in a couple hours.

A tall, lanky gentleman just stopped to pet Perl. He is now sitting with his coffee and a book on the other side of the entranceway. Perl doesn’t understand why he doesn’t come back to pet her. I wonder how long he will be able to stand the smell of the cigarette butt holder next to the table. Perl an I had to move from that table earlier.

Now my coffee is gone. Time to walk home and make some blueberry muffins.

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