My Darling Michou,
Thank you so much for lifting my spirits this afternoon with your delectable ham, raspberry and brie panini with a side of beluga lentil, corn and tomato salad. My heart is overflowing with love for you. I already miss you desperately.
Michou, I crave you with all my appetite and soul. I have cherished and adored your long glass case filled with gourmet delights since I moved into your hood. All that you have shared with me, the gentle caress of your market fresh fennel salad, the touch of goat cheese on your $3.99 ratatouille baked potato, your warm layer cake-sized slice of macaroni and cheese, your loving and sensual roasted brussel sprouts, the feel of your luscious hot soups on my tongue, the thrill of holding my sandwich in your gingham-checked paper container wrapped in plastic wrap. I am amazed at what you do to my taste buds.
Michou, I long for you. I long to understand what you really are. Are you a sandwich shop, a bakery, a cafeteria, a gourmet market? Yes, yes, you are all these and more. I beg of you, why do you give yourself so affordably to be devoured by the masses who adore you? Why do you suffer me to endure your long lines stretching to the sidewalk at lunchtime just to get a glimpse of your salmon with dilled mayonnaise? I long to feel the comfort and peace of your half sandwich and soup for $5.50. I long to feel the sensual passion of a 75-cent shrimp artichoke tart. I long to swim in the warm, gentle sea of your tomato bisque, to be surrounded by it, to be enveloped in it, to draw strength from it. I long to be lucky enough to score a seat at your intimate lunch counter overlooking your sexy storage area, but if not, I will happily carry your treasures across the street to Victor Steinbreuck Park for a romantic picnic with a glorious view of Elliot Bay and entrancing homeless people…if it’s not raining.
With all the love of a hungry heart,
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