Why I Oughta...

7/14/15

This post offers readers a restaurant review of sorts, and a chance to see just how warped my mind is.  But I warn you, there is a section that is really gross and kind of graphic, at least by my standards. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

There's a restaurant in my new neighborhood just about two blocks from me on South Street called Jon's. They make a pretty decent cheesesteak and Buster and I have gone there for brunch a few times. This past Sunday we ordered an omelette with smoked mozzarella for me and a side of bacon for Buster. Well, mostly for Buster. He very generously offered to share since I always pick up the bill.

The omelette was tasty and so huge I left about a third of it on the plate. The potatoes were sliced into tiny little rectangles, looking more liked diced apple than anything else. They weren't great, but two or three or six squirts of ketchup really helps.

The problem with Jon's is their logo. You see Jon's advertises itself as the birthplace of Larry Fine (nee Fineberg) of The Three Stooges, who was born in Philadelphia in 1902. They've got a giant mural of him playing the violin painted high above South Street with his face comically contorted and his hair all akimbo.*

This is actually the second mural the artist David McShane painted of Larry Fine for Jon's. The first, which like the current painting, feature Larry in a loud checkered suit jacket juxtaposed on top of a black and yellow bull's eye. Larry's not really doing much in this first portrait, just being Larry, which really is more than enough. It's this first image that can be found on the menu and on a sign in front of the restaurant proclaiming "Birth Place of Larry Fine!"

At first I thought it was funny, and I wondered why they didn't just call the place Larry's or Fine's. But now that I've spent a few Sundays staring at that sign and letting my imagination run wild while waiting for frittatas and Diet Coke, I've contemplated all sorts of horrifying images.

Second Warning: the gross part is almost here.

Now there's a good chance that Larry wasn't even born at this address, only somewhere in the neighborhood. And even if he was born at this address, there's a good chance it was not a restaurant at the time. And even if it was a restaurant at the time, there's no reason to think that Mrs. Fineberg, fresh from slicing the potatoes into little rectangles for some rather mundane home fries, stooped over at the sink just long enough to squeeze out  little Larry with his crooked nose and familiar crimson locks sculpted into a topiary so ornate it strained the very limits of her womanhood, before washing her hands (hopefully!) and cracking open a few dozen eggs.

And yet...and yet...when I read those words "birth place of Larry Fine" and see that crazy face superimposed over the hypnotic black and  yellow circles receding further and further into the distance like a pinwheel, it's as if Larry is lurching forward, emerging fully formed from some slap-stick-mad-house version of a birth canal.

It's lovely that Philadelphia has found a way to honor one of its native sons who went out into the world and made good for himself while entertaining millions (including me) but he still seems an odd choice for a restaurant. Imagine eating under a sign and accompanying art work that said "Birth Place of Paul Giamatti...or Steve Busecmi!"

Nyuk nyuk nyuk indeed.


(Note: My reinterpretation of the original art work is a simple pencil drawing seriously manipulated on my Ipad.)

*I really love that word.