He suggested a place called the Bongo Room, which I assumed was some kind of Argentinian nightclub that served breakfast-themed cocktails (for example, a cosmopolitan benedict, which is vodka, cranberry juice, and just a splash of hollandaise sauce). But it turns out with was your classic Wicker Park restaurant: everything you enjoy, but exactly $2.50 more expensive than you would expect (walking into the restaurant cost $2.50). I ordered the breakfast burrito in an attempt to make myself appear more ethnic.
Pictured above: A burrito filled with avocado, eggs, and regret. While it was delicious, my brother's croissant sandwich (not pictured) had significantly more pastry.
Afterwards, as Folmsbee men are want to do, we ventured to see if there were other foodstuffs to conquer. We stumbled upon a Farmer's Market, but yet there were no farmers being sold, only sad buckets of fruits and vegetables at a considerable mark-up.
As much of a fan of local food I used to be, I have some skeptical hold-ups best described by Mr. Brian Dunning (see here for those reading for science and not absurdity). But regardless, I found some roots too appealing to turn down. My love of subterranean vegetables is well documented.
Pictured above: a chump and his turnips.
More exciting events transpired today, but I will save those juicy tales for later in the week. For now, I shall change out of my after-dinner tuxedo and into my flannel pajamas and cap. I have a long night of dream-thinking ahead of me.
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