Ike's is back!

Hungry, biking back from from Dolores Park, I rode by the heretofore closed down grave site of Ike's Place, the vanguard of the delectable deli sandwich in San Francisco, evicted well before their time due to incessant douchebaggery of some entitled couple living on the same block. You see, Ike's is so good that people are willing to wait sometimes up to an hour on line outside their little bodega, for a session with that sweet dirty sauce on grilled dutch crunch, and these twatnuggets think that the line is a nuisance. So no more Ike's.

As the blessed little shop had officially closed down a week before, my bike-by was purely nostalgic, still lingering wafts of sammy dancing freshly in my soul. This Banksy-like tag, printed on the boarded up windows, further pulled at the heart strings.

BUT WAIT. Because I'm a total tool, I had to check my Verizon Google Motorola Droid X for social updates, and noticed that my friend and fellow follower Eli M Glad had updated his twit-feeder with an article proclaiming Ike's risen from the dead, relocated in the Lime building around the street (2247 Market St @ Sanchez), and this was DAY ONE.

Ladies and Gentleyouse, Ike's is back. I placed an order for a Hot Mama Huda, and if I can have a moment of your time, let me tell you what this sandwich is like.

Imagine walking through old Paris on a warm autumn evening, the cobblestones tickling the soles of your shoes as the whirring by of Renault and Fiat hatchbacks zip around the crowded streets. Every block is an olefactory delight, your hard won-empty stomach rumbling, the mustardy smells of sandwich shops titilating your tastebuds, wetting and setting your mouth ready for your delicious meal to come.

You turn a corner into an alley as the shade of a lampost cools your hot brow, and suddenly your path is stopped by the cool, freshly shaven leg of a voluptious vixen draped in flowing red, auburn hair falling lasciviously over her supple breasts. She puts a finger over your already moistened lips and whispers "Shhhhh," and you say not a word. She pulls your arm around her supple waist where your hand rests upon her backside, feathers falling over your forearm as you realize this is no ordinary Justine, this is an honest-to-harlot Angel in your arms.

She pulls you closer, and in a warm breathly whimper, sighs "have at me." She spreads her legs apart, her golden juices flowing like a Bacchanal symposium of love as you lap, invigorating your soul with the highest vitality; the throbbing ecstacy of angelic gyrations, pulsating in supreme divinity blowing away your entire earthly presence into one massive momentous explosion.


That's what the sandwich was like.