While I was having my dinner tonight, The Rocket, one of the part-owners of the bar, introduced me to Mr. Belvedere. Mr. Belvedere is the ceramic dog that replaced the ceramic chicken that someone stole. You might have seen that chicken if you've been over to Amazon to not buy one of the so-called books I have there.
The Rocket also made one of the best pear cobblers I've ever laid into, and tonight was my second slice. (Friday was the first.) If you hang around me long enough, you'll quickly learn that I, generally, loathe cobbler because of my long-standing exposure to those made by Addie Coats. I won't go into that mess here, but she left me never wanting to see another cobbler for as long as I stalk through this world.
I would have held to that conviction except that The Rocket makes her cobbler with bourbon, lots of bourbon. They should card people before serving that dessert.
Between the dog and the cobbler, that'd be enough for a card, but there's more. As I was leaving, she called me by name and thanked me for coming by. It was a friendly gesture that was better than the cobbler, and that was with me stone sober. All I had to drink was water, aside from licking the cobbler plate.