Little Pete's
Back in upstate NY, when I was just a wee little slacker, I used to split my time be-tween community college, my parents’ basement, and a dazzling array of 24-hour diners. Some years later, things have changed a lot for me. I live in the great city of Philadelphia, in a great apart-ment, on a great street, and I go to a gre-- an okay school. But—and this is a big but—the all-night diners here really leave a lot to be desired. To be fair, my radius is limited to where I can walk or bike from my Center City HQ. Perhaps there are better diners a little farther out, but that doesn’t excuse Little Pete’s for its consistently middling mediocrity. Cold French fries, paltry servings of burnt onion rings, sickeningly sad slaw, and anemic fruit plates await you in this dingy little shoebox we call Pete’s. Not only that, but you have to risk your neck walking across the slippery kitchen floor just to take a leak in the annoyingly out-of-the-way restroom. But I keep going back for more. I mean, where else is my tipsy ass going to go for some greasy chow in the middle of the night? Beggars can’t be choosy and I can’t not be hungry after a bender at B&B’s. C’est la vie.
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