February 22, 2026

Sunday mornings last until sunset.

By the time heartburn and tree pollen rouse me, it’s 10 o’clock in the morning. I shake off the lingering haze of 1000 different dreams of vice and missed appointments. The latter I can do without, but the farewell of the former leaves a blue ache. I demand to live in sin. There must be some way to bring one of these fantasies to life.

I can get a BLT at the AllGood Cafe.

I shouldn’t. My severance runs out in two weeks, and soon I’ll be at the mercy of the dominatrixes (dominatrices?) at the Texas Workforce Commission. I have shredded rotisserie chicken in the fridge. I polished off the entire bowl of peanut butter nuggets at my roommate’s birthday party last night. I didn’t let anyone know I was the only person eating the peanut butter nuggets. I revisited them periodically throughout the night, like out-of-sight trysts with a secret lover. And every time I returned, the count was the same as when I left them. It was me. I ate all the nuggets. I can’t control myself.

But tonight, my girlfriend’s mom is in town, and I know she’ll pay for our Italian dinner. I’ll offer to pay my share, of course. “No, Mrs. C! Let me get the Tagliatella Verde Ai Funghi. I gobbled it down before you and E even smelled it leaving the kitchen doors.” An act of course. A devious ploy. No one at that table truly believes I want to pay for the meal, but I’ll offer anyway. That’s living in polite society.

A free meal tonight means I’m allowed to pay for a hot sandwich now. The BLT will assuage the contrition borne by this mental calculus.

I roll out of bed. The ghosts of two beers and an overenthusiastic ceiling fan double the force of gravity. My hair is getting longer. I wrangle it into orderly bedheadedness and hope my glasses will hide the purple hammocks under my eyes. I pull my 2017 high school football hoodie out of the closet, consider the dangers of unchecked nostalgia at such an early hour, put it back, and pull out a similarly amorphous white hoodie. The words “Don’t Drink That Coffee”, printed in a gentle san-serif typeface, underline an image of a yellow fish falling into a coffee percolator. I pull it on, sling my white Jansport onto my back, and stumble out the door into the condescending sunlight.

I walk up Bryan Street, across Exall Park, and down Hall Street. The world is green leaves, blue skies, and gray concrete. To the south, golden light bounces off the glass forest of the Dallas skyline. I almost love the city I call home, but then I have to trot across Live Oak Street, which stretches 45 lanes of callous traffic, and I feel like a trespasser.

I receive the day’s memento mori passing through the Baylor medical corridor. A mother and daughter walk out of Roberts Hospital to a parking lot carrying pillows and blankets. Outside of the American Cancer Society, an old woman sits in a wheelchair propped up against a telephone pole. She faces away from the road, her eyes peeking out over a black scarf. Her finger slides across her phone screen with the constancy of a conveyor belt. I wonder what she could be waiting for.

Deep Ellum continues its slumber into the late morning. The vampires slunk back to their coffins long ago. I hop over construction zones and wave off the needy, knowing that when I say, “Sorry, man. I don’t have anything,” I actually half mean it. But the bridge between my definition of “anything” and theirs would get you from Los Angeles to Honolulu.

In my delirium, I take three wrong turns and have to consult Google Maps to figure out where I am, even though I’ve made this same journey half a dozen times in as many months. Just another of those embarrassing luxuries one can afford when doing something alone. I spot the AllGood Cafe to the north on the corner of Walton and Main. Seeing its colorful murals after walking through a briar patch of rebar and shuttered insurance fronts is like stepping out of Eraserhead and into Wild At Heart. It’s too cold for anyone to sit on the porch, but warmth radiates from the white-frame windows of the corner cafe.

I swing open the red door on the north side of the building. There’s a carpeted stage to the right. Sunday-tousled diners-in-wait mill around its steps with hungry eyes and gloomy faces, much unlike the host of happy, seated customers, their place settings covered in breakfast platters, gravy bowls, and empty creamer cups. A bar lines the south wall. There, you can spot the hunched, tired shoulders of the Atlases that prop up Deep Ellum on a Saturday night. I arrive at the changing of the guard. No matter how delicious my meal will be, I’ll never understand how good it must taste for them.

“Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life? We are determined to be starved before we are hungry.” – Thoreau, Walden

Brick walls covered with framed posters of local performances for the Old 97s and Willie Nelson. Red and chrome barstools. A mottled, brown, concrete floor. Paper butterflies hanging from the ceiling floating next to motes of dust in sunbeam seas. Christmas lights in the window that keep the faith year-round. Texas flags and paintings of tomatoes. Metal silverware clinking against white plates. The smell of rising biscuits and warm butter and coffee, coffee, coffee. Dale Cooper would call me a prophet. E.B. White would call me a participle-wringing gossip columnist.

I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

To get a table at the AllGood cafe, you need to write it down on a yellow, college-ruled notepad across the room from the front door. No signage elucidates this information to the neophyte diner. This is a restaurant with a learning curve. The experienced customer knows to beeline to this sacrosanct document and etch their name in the annals of history. Then, while waiting for their table, they find some small escape from life’s vicissitudes in watching newcomers flounder near the entrance, baffled by the lack of host and stand alike. The real beauty of the sign in sheet, aside from its analog simplicity, is its role as a community-builder. I’m not ashamed of the joy I glean from nudging newcomers towards it. They’re easy to spot, wide-eyed and confused at the lack of host stand. I point towards the sheet, and we have a mutual exchange of smiles and minor embarrassment. A little moment to fill the white space of the day.

After scribbling “Blake – 1” on the paper, I sit down on the middle step of the stage. Two Bohemians sit and study at the table closest to me, stacks of books flanking their plates. Further down, a group of friends bend over two pushed-together tables, talking and laughing closely. The Bohemians eat in silence. Each has a book in front of them opened right down the middle. I hide E.B. White’s Writings From The New Yorker, edited by Rebecca M. Dale, between my thighs. I’m only on page four. There’s nothing more embarrassing than reading the first pages of a book in public. I look like an amateur. A poser. But in packing my backpack, I found myself in an impossible situation. The only book I’m solidly in the middle of is Wuthering Heights, which sat on my shelf for years before Emerald Fennell forced me to get to business. I loathed Saltburn and Promising Young Woman and couldn’t wait to tear Wuthering Heights apart. There’s nothing more cathartic than letting a bad movie have it. But I have a code of ethics when it comes to hating. I won’t permit it for myself unless I understand the subject inside and out. To do otherwise is bigotry. To that effect, I resolved to read the book first. But I couldn’t go out in public with such an obvious, zeitgeist-driven work. I’d rather look like a dilettante than a bandwagonner.

That I obsessed over these decisions of optics: my book, my hoodie, whether to wear a watch or not, doesn’t escape me. I obsess over my obsessions too. Like any normal person would.

A woman’s voice breaks my trance. “Blake?” I’d read the same sentence enough times to achieve optic nerve torsion. “Our first communication of the year 1952 was a card from a seed company, and this seemed a good omen.”

The host leads me towards a small table abutting a brick pillar. “Is this okay?” She could’ve set me down on the train tracks outside and I would’ve thanked her.

“Something to drink?”

“Water and coffee, please.”

“Coming right up!”

The mug is a delightful surprise every time. One time I got Waffle House (doozy). Today it’s a black mug with “RRLX Rail Logistics” on the side. The coffee tastes like a boiler room. Perfection. I can make a good cup at home. Only professionals can perform the alchemy that makes charcoal, stevia, and whole milk taste like memory lane. As I fall into the warm brew, I think about how you have to go somewhere alone to really know it. Places are great conversationalists. Give them your full attention, the same as you would with a person you loved, or were falling in love with.

A waiter comes to take my order, a handheld POS device at the ready. She’s got big glasses, red lips, and a kind, no-nonsense attitude that certifies I’ll be well taken care of. The exchange lasts under 10 seconds. We’ve got our lines memorized.

My little table next to the pillar is a panopticon. I peer through the windows of three dozen different lives. A white plate stacked to the gills with food slides into view and breaks my reverie. “Anything else I can get you?”. Tap dancing Christ, how about some pitons and an oxygen tank? I’ve had a handful of Ultimate BLTs from the Cafe, and every time she’s more beautiful than last I saw her.

I’ve met some folks that don’t believe in the BLT. They call it “an incomplete sandwich” or “a burger hold the burger.” Philistines engaged in deliberate self-deception. If they’d spend a little less time misunderstanding progressive income tax and voting based on gas prices, they might learn about one of lunch’s greatest treasures and thus be admitted into the kingdom of heaven.

The BLT is a five ingredient dish. It ranks itself among the small club of minimalistic culinary powerhouses that includes cacio e pepe, steak tartare, and ants on a log. The fewer the ingredients, the greater the required quality, not to mention immaculate preparation and presentation.

The AllGood Cafe’s BLT excels in all three of these metrics. The lettuce is large, wider than the sandwich, and hard as permafrost. The tomatoes are thick and merciless enough to trigger my codependency. And if you’re there between May and October? Don’t even joke. No one should be laughing right now. I’ll kill you.

The bread is properly understated. The BLT’s crunch comes from within. It’s transcendental that way. Don’t try to change it or gild the lily with ciabatta or baguette or sourdough. Follow the AllGood method: classic wheat. The John Stockton of bread.

The BLT employs a shadow ingredient. A true unsung hero on the order of Rosalind Franklin or the ozone. Mayonnaise. You cannot make the sandwich without it. Don’t get any ideas. It’s been tried, the results of which summoned unspeakable horrors to our world. The men and women in charge of the operation (I could get disappeared for even mentioning its existence) redacted and incinerated all documentation. Who said that? Focus on reality. A sandwich, like an engine, needs lubrication, lest it cause excessive friction, throw sparks, and kill everyone in a three meter radius. Mayonnaise contains the literal oil you need to maintain your vital heat. For those of you turning your noses at the thought of the room temperature, goopy white emulsion, I empathize. In fact, I’m comfortable saying I hate the stuff. But I don’t believe in absolute evils in this world. Mayonnaise, like a stinging wasp, has its place in its ecosystem.

What’s that? We have a surprise special guest? Well who am I to deny a little heresy. Add a little verve to your meal. “I thought this was about BLTs!” I hear you spit. “Where’s your integrity? Your sense of common decency? You can’t put avocado on a BLT. It’s not the done thing. In fact, I think it’s illegal!” Damn, you caught me. Get the cuffs out and wet the sponge, boys. I’m a hack and a fraud, sure, but I’m no fascist.

Where was I? 6.0221408e+23. That’s how many times better this sandwich is with avocado on it. It contributes in a similar way to the mayo, but sourced from the well of love rather than hate. Creamy, earthy, herbal, and pleasing to the eye. And the mouthfeel? Imagine being able to eat silk pajamas. Gorgeous addition to the sandwich. I drop the extra $2 on it every time. Cheaper than what the robber barons at Chipotle are charging for guac, and no bioweapons in the lettuce either.

That leaves us with the bacon. Where do I even start here? Wilbur would be honored to receive this end. Stocky as your mother and crispy to boot. Not to mention they stack it as thick as a pork chop. Flappy, soggy, fatty bacon offends my palate as much as a strep test. I do not sit down at the AllGood Cafe in fear. Their griddles do not relent.

Quick shoutout to the dill pickle spear, salsa, and tortilla chips. The party favors next to the main event. No such thing as too much love.

I curl the beautiful beast up to mouth level and admire it as one looks upon untrodden snow. I bite down and experience more flavor in a tenth of a second than anyone in my bloodline extant before 1900 experienced in their entire lives. I brace my forearm against the table and squeeze the coffee cup to stifle a moan. I could get away with that in good company, but not alone.

I continue my morning in a hophead daze, reading my book between bites and flicking lettuce from between my teeth. Damn… this guy had the language by the balls. That’s the trouble with great writers: they let you know just how inept you are at something you’ve been doing since you ran exclusively on milk.

A few more paragraphs then wham! Newsflash, pal. Skyline-high block letters reading, None of your problems are novel. Your ideas even less-so. From 1938: “…it is still an open question whether this mysterious electrical diffusion has been a blessing to man, who appears at the moment to be most unhappy about nearly everything.” I’ll be damned. It was the radios this whole time.

I take another bite and look around the diner. I feel an equilibrium, an inner peace, and a chunk of bread hitting traffic on its way down my esophagus. I struggle with Dallas as a place. You’ll never find this city on someone’s bucket list. No one says, “We haven’t gotten together in a while. How about a weekend trip to Dallas?” Except this one woman I met in a hotel bar in Cork, Ireland. Her name was Eileen, or so the men she was with told me. She insisted her name was Mary, but I couldn’t much understand her through the lovely accent and the drunken slurring and the greasy chicken wings she kept housing. Turns out, she’d just gotten a divorce, and when I mentioned I traveled all this way from the Big D itself, her emerald eyes grew so big I almost called 112 on account of a potential Graves’ case. Eileen/Mary honeymooned in Dallas. “Why the hell would anyone do that?” I asked. “I wanted to see where JFK died,” she said, spitting a little chicken wing on my right cheek in the process. I swore I’d never wash my face again.

So maybe there’re two things drawing the people to Dallas: the second largest international airport in the country, and the place where the prettiest president got his lights knocked out. I’ve flown DFW and I’ve danced on the X. Never struck me to send a telegram about either experience.

I used to regard my city as a cultural void–a place that has no greater meaning or purpose, a place where people simply live. Downtown might as well be a backlot in Burbank. Only later did I decide it does have a soul, a manufactured one. Dallas is fatal car crashes, guys that wear fleeces and say, “Did you hear they’re closing the streets in Deep Ellum because it’s not safe?” It’s NorthPark Mall and 10 million square acres of unmarked concrete pillboxes stuffed full of “high value” Pokémon cards. It’s highway segregation and Uber drivers that say, “Those damn Californians need to stay out of our town.”

Everything is stacking up. The albatross of unemployment wrenches my neck. I can’t get physical therapy for whiplash because the COBRA payments would cost more than my rent. I’m not even sure I’m from Dallas. I grew up in University Park. I certainly say I’m from Dallas. Avoiding any relation with West Egg and by association its much more notorious sister city. Egads! I’m the gentrifying force pressing on the borderlands of one of the last cultural refuges in this urban tundra. What right do I have to criticize? What right do I have to exist? I might as well–

I take another bite of my BLT (dislocating my jaw in the process), slurp down a glug of poor man’s café au lait, and watch the good servers of the AllGood Cafe spin plates with Bolshoi precision. I look at the stage and recall my nights at Ruins and the Kessler and Elks Lodge #71 (I don’t think about The Bomb Factory).

This feeling will fade. The optimism will give way once again. That’s the way of things. But let me linger here a while longer.

On my walk home, the sun is a friend, the air cool, and the sky a deeper shade of blue.

Visit the AllGood’s website here.