a must to avoid

Have you ever walked or driven past a place that you have never been to and, just by the looks of things, thought to yourself, "I am never going there!"? I do this a lot. Sometimes it's a store. Sometimes it's a restaurant. This time, it's a restaurant.

I take the same route to work every morning. I wind my way through northeast Philadelphia towards the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and eventually to the mostly industrial burg of Pennsauken, New Jersey. Every morning, at around 6:30, I pass a small strip center on Levick Street. Wedged between a Chinese restaurant whose curtains are always drawn and whose neon "OPEN" sign is always lit even when they are not open and a Little Caesar's which I will never set foot in again is an intriguing little restaurant. Well, intriguing to me, anyway. Every morning, when I pass by this place, I find myself craning my neck to get a closer assessment. The place is marked by a large backlit sign (that is never lit) that reads "Breakfast & Lunch" with a small subhead that guarantees "Homemade Style" along with the phone number. Beneath the sign, the grease-streaked windows display several pieces of paper taped to the inside. I can only assume that these papers delineate some important information for those who are close enough to read their contents. Perhaps the day's specials or a change in business hours or maybe a plea for qualified and experienced restaurant help. Whatever they may say, from my position behind the steering wheel of my car and doing approximately 40 miles per hour, I am not privy to that information. I can, however, see that there is never — never! — a single customer inside the place. Never. I can make out a few figures moving around at the back of the interior, behind what is most likely a service counter. I can make out an array of tables and chairs but they are all always empty. I can see a large cooler with a PEPSI logo glowing at the top, but there are no customers helping themselves to sodas nor employees taking some drinks out to fill an order... at least never during the four or five seconds that elapses as I drive past.

First of all, I am intrigued by the sign. I wonder what was the discussion that led to the decision to call the place "Breakfast & Lunch?" Did the owner make a list of possible names, scratching out the ones that were too obscure? Was "Petit-Déjeuner et Déjeuner" not used because the majority of the neighborhood residents did not speak French? Was "Elevenses" passed on because the Tolkien reference would have been lost on the working-class folks who make the immediate area their home? Perhaps "Breakfast & Lunch" was the just best option in the owner's short list. After all, that is what they serve... sort of like the General Putnam Motel Diner featured in the film My Cousin Vinny.

I am also intrigued by the general description of the cuisine, as described by the subheading on the sign. "Homemade Style" is not exactly enticing. "Homemade" is, but not homemade style. Does this imply that the food is not homemade, but, instead, mimics the type of food that one would expect to be homemade. Is your food homemade? Well, it's homemade style! When we rip open this 300 pound bag of hash brown potatoes that were frozen in some processing plant last month, they will be prepared in the style of homemade food. Same goes for when we rehydrate these powdered eggs. Or maybe it's more along the lines of when you see a "kosher style" designation at a delicatessen, yet you find bacon among the breakfast side orders or Swiss cheese melted on your corned beef in the ever-popular, but decidedly trayfe, Reuben sandwich. Well... maybe "homemade style" isn't as "cut and dried." "Homemade style" sounds... sounds... I don't know.... weird. It's a bit too noncommittal and very suspect.

Two doors away from Breakfast & Lunch is a DMV location where people regularly line up hours before the official opening time. You would think that Breakfast & Lunch would do some kind of business from the folks waiting for state-issued identification. But, no... the queue stays just outside the doors of the DMV office and no one gives a glance in the direction of Breakfast & Lunch

I decided to see if Breakfast & Lunch has an internet presence. Sure enough, they do!  It seems that food from Breakfast & Lunch is readily available via Door Dash, Uber Eats and various other independent delivery services. My search also revealed that the place also goes by the name "B L Kitchen." This alternate moniker is emblazoned on the laminated menus from which a customer could select a meal... if there were indeed any customers.

And then there is Yelp! — the internet's great equalizer. The Yelp! reviews of Breakfast & Lunch are required reading. Evidentially, they do have customers. Regular customers! I suppose they patronize the business at other times besides 6:30 AM and 6:30 and five seconds. The Yelp! reviews feature a lot of photographs of very generic looking platters of standard breakfast food. Eggs, just plain eggs. Toast accompanied by a little plastic container of commercially-packed jelly. The amateurly-written sentiment ranges from high praise and sworn loyalty to vivid descriptions of disgusting and traumatic experiences endured by unsuspecting customers just looking for a couple of scrambled eggs and some coffee. There are repeated complaints of wrong orders, undercooked or overcooked food, not to mention dirty silverware, dirty plates, dirty tables and dirty floors. Other reviews stated that while the food was okay, the staff was rude, obnoxious, slow, unresponsive, unknowledgeable and — in one case — stoned. Sprinkled among the viscous and disparaging reports are glowing accounts of ambrosial pancakes and heavenly sausages with just the right amount of seasoning and condiments. These are immediately followed by a tirade about ketchup packets being pulled from a customer's take-out order and a manager scolding the waitstaff for putting so many packets in a customer's order in the first place.

And then there are the roaches. A number of reviews — too many for my comfort — describe troupes of roaches on tables, on walls, on counters, near food preparation areas, and, of course, in the bathrooms. That was all I needed to see.

I have no intentions of ever stopping at Breakfast & Lunch. I will never let my curiosity get the best of me. I will continue to pass Breakfast & Lunch a little before sunrise and again on my return commute hours after its 3:00 PM posted closing time. Even before reading Yelp! reviews, the place just looked.... uninviting from the outside. It is just one of those places. If you live in the Philadelphia area, patronizing Breakfast & Lunch is totally up to you. You won't see me there.... or anyone else, as far as I can tell. 

Although, this guy sure seems to like it... whoever he is.

originally posted on Yelp!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wide open spaces

Every summer, Mrs. Pincus and a couple thousand other folks converge on Camden, New Jersey for a three-day music festival put on by my favorite Philadelphia radio station. The XPoNetial Music Festival — now in its twenty-fifth year — brings bands from all different genres to two stages for a celebration of fun, food, camaraderie and positivity. At least that's what it attempts to do.

The show is outdoors — rain or shine. Most years, the weather has been spectacular. A few times, performances have been cut short because of rain. One year, recently, schedules were shuffled around (with some acts being canceled completely) because the festival was scheduled the same weekend as a hurricane. This year, thankfully, the weather was wonderful. Bright sunshine, cool breezes coming off the nearby Delaware River and moderate temperatures never inching past the low 80s. Of course, an outdoor show is much more laid back. Attendees are free to stretch out and make themselves comfortable. Sure there are crowds right up in front of the stage, but for the most part, people keep a comfortable space between each other. Blankets are used to mark off territory and keep things orderly. But, there's always that one guy...

On Saturday afternoon — Day Two of the festival — brought a variety of musicians to the two stages. Early in the afternoon, local singer Owen Stewart brought a full entourage to the River Stage to play songs from his debut album. From our regular vantage point — at the very top of the hill of Wiggins Park's natural amphitheater — we could barely make out the number of band members, let alone any recognizable faces. They played and we listened and, like most other people, we engaged in conversation with our fellow concert-goers.

Later in the day, Swiss-born Sophie Allison — who goes by the stage name "Soccer Mommy" — took the River Stage with her band. I have heard a few songs by Soccer Mommy on the radio, but I don't recall anything special about them. A few songs into her set, I found myself losing interest. I began absentmindedly scanning the crowd and finding my attention drawn elsewhere. Just then, I spotted a friend of mine sitting just a few feet away. He is a local guitarist and has played in a bunch of bands in the area. He is also a fellow graphic artist. Although we are connected on several social media platforms, I have not seen him in person since the last time one of his bands played the XPN Festival in 2022. I scooted over to where he was sitting to say "hello." He smiled when he saw me and introduced me to his blanket-mates, who happened to be his parents. We talked a little about his upcoming solo musical project and the current status of his current band. Then I asked him how his design career was progressing. Before he got a chance to answer that one guy (from the second paragraph) who was sitting in front of my friend, turned around and tapped my forearm. "Hey," he began in an angry growl, "If you two wanna talk, take it somewhere else!" The last part of his demand was bathed in a particularly venomous tone.

I stopped talking. My friend stopped talking. We exchanged puzzled looks. I whispered that it was good to see him and I sheepishly slunk back to my blanket. I thought to myself: "Wow! That guy must be Soccer Mommy's biggest fan!" and I kind of felt bad that I was impeding on his moment. I glanced over to where I once was, expecting to see that one guy grooving to the monotonous sounds of Soccer Mommy, now that the air was rid of the distracting cacophony of my rude voice. Surprisingly, that one guy was gone. It took me less than ten seconds to get back to my staked-out, blanketed territory and that one guy didn't even stick around to the end of the song I was interrupting.

As afternoon turned to evening, I spotted that one guy over by the smaller Marina Stage. He was standing by the side of the stage while venerable folk-rock mainstay Richard Thompson was addressing the crowd between songs. During Richard's stage banter, that one guy was screaming incoherently, trying to raise his voice above that of the electronically-amplified Richard Thompson. As the next song began, that one guy turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

Throughout the rest of Saturday and many times over the course of Sunday, I spotted that one guy in various places on the festival grounds. Every time I saw him, he was alone... and yelling. 

I hope he had a good time.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

just another story

I love movies. Love 'em, I tells ya! I have favorites, just like you. Those movies that I'll watch over and over again. There are others that I am happy to have seen, but don't feel the need for a second viewing. Then there are those that I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing and things would have been just fine.

I tend to shy away from big Hollywood blockbusters that are overhyped and loved by the masses because the masses have been told to love them. I have never seen any of the films in the Matrix franchise. Same goes for the Fast and Furious and Mission: Impossible series. I saw the first three Star Wars movies (Chapters 4, 5 and 6, for those of you keeping score), but that's it. And — to be honest — I didn't really like those three. To tell the truth, I don't care much for science fiction or movies based on popular comic books. I have, however, seen several entries in the Superman canon, only because my wife is a long-time fan of The Man of Steel. And, against my better judgement, I have seen a few of the Batman films, having grown up on the campy 60s TVB series. After 1989's Batman starring Michael Keaton, I kind of lost interest. Christopher Nolan's resurrection with Christian Bale did nothing for me.

I have always loved the horror genre. In my youth, I was a fan of the classics from Universal Studios, including the original Frankenstein, Dracula and The Wolfman. The subsequent reboots of those titles... not so much. I don't like the whole slasher trend and even more so, the so-called "torture porn" and "body horror" films that seem more like endurance tests than forms of entertainment.

As far as films go, I like a good story first and foremost. It seems, sadly, that Hollywood is more interested in blowing stuff up than a well-conceived story. Convoluted premises and totally implausible scenarios are frustrating to me. Also, movies that are "lovingly shot" and move along at the pace of paint drying do not bring me enjoyment.

Recently, I stumbled upon two — two! — films that I thoroughly enjoyed. These films shared similar attributes. They each featured an ensemble cast that deftly brought the story and their characters to life. They felt like real people, living real lives. They offered a thoughtful peek into the lives of people that you and I could know. — just regular people experiencing regular situations in their regular lives. No explosions. No evil plots to take over the world. No diabolical schemes driven by revenge. No outlandishly intricate action that the perpetrators execute precisely the first time, achieving impossible results. No. None of that. As a matter of fact, if you ask me what these two movies are about, I'm not sure I could answer. They were just a small glimpse of the lives of people. Just people.

The first film is My First Mister, a 2001 release that served as the directorial debut (and, so far, only directorial effort) of actress Christine Lahti. It is a small movie that had limited release in its initial run. It stars Albert Brooks — this time just as an actor and not portraying a character in his own script — and Leelee Sobieski, a talented young actress, who has since left the acting business to focus on her family and budding art career. The two main characters are skillfully supported by the likes of Carol Kane, Michael McKean, John Goodman and Mary Kay Place. Brooks plays an irascible menswear salesman who strikes up an unlikely friendship with Sobieski's angst-filled goth teen. But, My First Mister is so much more than that. It's a study of humans — their actions, reactions and interactions. It's a sweet, sad, funny, poignant way to spend an hour and a half. The insightful script was written by Jill Franklyn, best known for penning the "Yada Yada" episode of Seinfeld and the single season black comedy Gravity. The performances were spot on, as was the sharply accurate dialog. 

The second movie is The Station Agent, a 2003 film, marking another directorial debut, this one for actor/screenwriter Tom McCarthy (no, not the announcer for the Philadelphia Phillies). A dozen years later, McCarthy would win an Oscar for his screenplay for Spotlight, which he also directed and which won the 2016 Academy Award for Best Picture. What brought me to The Station Agent was McCarthy also co-wrote the screenplay for the Disney animated feature Up. The Station Agent, like My First Mister, is a little, unpretentious film that offers a candid peek into the lives of ordinary people and their ordinary lives. An early entry into his huge and celebrated body of work, the film stars Peter Dinklage as a quiet man who just wants to be left alone. His co-star, the versatile Bobby Cannavale, is a gregarious hot dog vendor who doesn't want to leave poor Peter alone. Filling out this unexpected trio is Patricia Clarkson as a mentally-preoccupied artist dealing with her own internal and external issues. Michelle Williams, John Slattery and the delightfully deadpan Raven Goodwin offer suitably realistic supporting characters. The story unfolds slowly and purposely, allowing the actors to fully flesh out their respective roles and create believable, relatable and emotion-filled people, not just actors reading line that were written for them to recite. It's funny and sad, joyful and nerve-wracking, sweet and touching. The plot of The Staiton Agent is ancillary. The real focus is the characters and how they are brought to life and how they evolve, thanks to the talents of three (and more) adept and very well-cast actors. (Screenwriter/director McCarthy noted that he wrote the characters with Dinklage, Cannavale and Clarkson in mind.)

I don't recommend movies. I don't know your particular taste in movies. I don't know if you'll like a particular film. I do know that I liked — really liked — My First Mister and The Station Agent. You might, too. But, you might not. There are no explosions or car chases or monsters or space ships. Just some solid acting and solid writing. 

I liked them. You? You're on your own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com