Take 95 North to Paradise

Whenever we or my in-laws down the street, Kelly and Drew have mutual friends in town for the weekend, Sunday usually concludes the visit with brunch somewheres before company leaves town. A recent weekend ended as such, with our friends (basically honorary brother and sister to all of us) John and Marisa sticking around for Richmond’s favorite late-morning meal before heading back home.

The venue was decided in the sunroom unbeknownst to me whilst I lay well hungover in the living room. Kitchen 64 (http://www.kitchen64.com/hen64.com/) was the all-but-unanimous choice. Having never been a fan of their brunch menu, I’d have voted for 7-11 taquitos over our destination, but he who nurses a headache shant receive a vote in this house. With head throbbing, stomach rumbling, mouth grumbling, and face scowling, I apprehensively left the confines of my uncomfortable, though un-opinionated couch to drive to a restaurant I didn’t want to patronize.

Upon arrival I sat and scanned the menu as I’d done several times before, hoping as I’d hoped before to find something palatable. Having for some reason resigned myself to thinking only the brunch menu was being served, I again came up blank, sighing loud enough to be noticed.

“You know they’re serving lunch right now too diva.” Jamie mentioned with just a hint of the kindest sarcasm.

I reopened the menu and turned to the sandwich page. There, at the bottom of the section, I accomplished something Bono never could. I found what I was looking for…the 95 North.

Much better than anything Mathew Modine could get for $10 a la Full Metal Jacket, this elegant work of art is a site to behold, then consume for a man of any degree of sobriety. However if Kitchen 64 was my restaurant, I’d market this sandwich as the most effective of hangover cures the world over. Lying open-faced in perfect symmetry, a soft, warm sub roll plays the part of a king sized mattress for the stack of fresh beef resting atop it. The meat is blanketed with melted cheddar cheese and cole slaw, while throw pillows played by, wait for it; french fries adorn the bedspread. These are in turn topped by a sprinkling of diced tomatoes.

A tear rolled down my cheek as the creation was placed in front of me. As delicious as it was beautiful, I tore into it with knife and fork as my divaness precluded me to, until I’d taken enough off the top for a manly “pick the damn thing up” photo-op. I swallowed every bit of the sandwich with a smattering of pride as a chaser, knowing now the wonders of Kitchen 64 and their exquisite 95 North.