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To Anselm Brocki's previous piece
Art of Eating Finally unable to resist the red-brick cafe on Sixth Street, featuring "GREAT MEXICAN AND AMERICAN FOOD," and a "SPECIAL 6 A.M. TO 11 A.M. PORK CHOPS RICE AND BEANS $4.99." Greasier and older than a 1930s Edward Hopper but with the same smell-of-pee man at the round-stool counter next to me, gray felt hat brim down, staring at his plate. "No hay torta de jamon. How about a plain ham and cheese?" the fry- cook-owner-waiter says, which he builds layer by layer next to the huge carbonized stove--square white brown-crusted bread, pale yellow mayo, pink ham, mustard-colored mustard, orange cheddar cheese, water-droplet pea green lettuce, slices of red beefsteak tomato-- just like a cut sandwich on a stamped metal Coca-Cola medallion sign. He is wearing a cute white overseas soda-fountain cap, with his blond hair bobbed in the back, curving forward at the sides, under fresh pink cheeks, and smiles, showing perfect white teeth, as he sets the piece of art down in front of me, like in the sign.
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