I don't know how I got from crepes and croissants to garlic fries and pulled pork sandwiches but there are some things in life that take priority over haute cuisine. Namely baseball.
I'm a season's tickets holder – bleacher section 138, thank you very much – and if you're anywhere near my row and wearing L.A. colors I suggest you find another place to cheer. Either that or suffer the consequences. The guy next to me gets kicked out regularly for fighting and the woman above me with the "Duck the Fodgers" t-shirt is a trash talking baseball badass who's a little scary after three pints of Budweiser.
But I'm not going to bore you with the details. This is a French food blog after all. You wouldn't want to know about the six homerun derby balls that landed within two feet of our seats or the American league beating the National league for the tenth year in a row (boooooo!!!!) or the Dodgers kicking our butts for three straight games (what's a matter with Lowe? He's a bum!!!).
The Giants may be cursed and Barry may never hit a home run again but our baseball park is a sight to behold and the cuisine – now we're talking – the cuisine is worth listening to Dodger's fans mouth off for at least a few innings.
It's good to be home...