Some few months ago, the boy and I noticed a crepe shop sandwiched between the House of Cha and an African arts store downtown. “Hey, I love crepes!” I said, remembering the days when my mom made savory ham and cheese affairs (none of this dessert business for my salt-toothed family. Odd, that, considering that my mother makes a living baking pastries). We actually attempted crepe runs a couple of times, but the shop has strange hours, much like the increasingly ephemeral Joe’s Bakery (seriously, that place is never open). The boy has a list of activities to accomplish, mostly culinary in nature, before shipping off to Germany, and eating tasty crepes was one of them.
As today has been one of the first days since June in which one can safely exist outside in Lawrence without risking death by sun-fueled combustion, we decided to bike downtown and visit the crepe place (checking the hours before going, of course). I’ve gotten used to handling the bike, and actually rather enjoy it now, since I’ve learned to avoid two things: 1) traffic and 2) hills. Specifically, the gradually sloping ones, of which there are many. You’d be surprised at how hilly Kansas can be; we’re no Alaska, but our noble Mt. Sunflower can kick the asses of its peers in both Delaware and Florida combined, thank you very much. If I do continue with this biking business, I may have to relocate to one of these states.
Anyhow, the crêpes. They are located in one of the most unpretentious, unassuming places I’ve seen in Lawrence, barring the old Odessa’s (where I worked a few summers ago, and where the owner actually bopped me upside the head with a ticket pad whenever she was displeased). It could have easily been hawking cheap tacos or pizza slices, if there had been room for a pizza oven in the tiny interior. “Sorry sir, we’re all out of the apple compote,” said the chef, “would you like a chicken fajita instead?”
We watched the sorority newscasters on Fox News making their pronouncements on the crisis in Lebanon as the guy served us our orders. While we ate, an older woman came in, sat down at what I assume was her regular table, and started bantering with the crepetier (I don’t know if that’s a real word, but I like it). They started commenting on the ridiculous appearances of the various audience members of the news show (“is that a TATTOO on her face? My Lordy”), and I decided then that I really like the place.
The food is a pretty good value, and some dishes are better than others. The olived-out florentine was a little too dry and salty. The components of the Italian-style crepe didn’t mesh all that well (it contained feta cheese, as well as mozzarella, sausage and pepperoni), but the chicken fajita was actually pretty tasty, considering that the boy and I don’t really care for Mexican (well, at least Tex-Mex). The crepes were so huge that we didn’t have room for the dessert crepes, which we’ll have to come back some time to try.
We chatted with the two others in the shop about the war, and politics in general, and I told him that the boy’s family is from Lebanon. On our way out, the chef wished the boy the best, and for the war to end soon. “Ain’t likely, though,” he said, shaking his head. “Damn shame what’s going on.”
A news article was pasted on the glass outside, featuring a photograph of both the chef and the older woman, who I guess is the owner of the place. The place wasn’t exactly teeming with people, and couldn’t fit more than seven people inside comfortably at a rush hour, I don’t think. I wanted to ask how business was, but wasn’t sure if that would be rude – implying that they’re not doing well! – but really, I hope they stay afloat. It’s increasingly rare to find such thoroughly local gems in downtown Lawrence these days.
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I’ve been there. They’re usually packed on Sundays at around 11 am, but then everyplace downtown that serves breakfast is at that time.
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