So, well, somebody said it was good. And, well, it smelled like cheap carpet in a cheap bar. Further, the spring rolls were deep fried, the size of short fat burritos. The waitress was oversubscribed and friendly, the art on the walls like nothing you have ever seen, as you can gather from the sample here. We had to go, and so we went. The thing about St. Johns that we didn't expect was the absolute genuineness of it, no irony, no post-hip anger, nothing but small town americana complete with terrible eats. We love it.
No comments:
Post a Comment