bubbling quiet, glow, lace, fire, birds underfoot, a home for wand’rers

51 Lincoln

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butter your tins, they once clucked; you, impish moppet, would use lard instead

East Coast Grill

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grits good enough for the best britches among us (no banana jokes)

The Gallows

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i refuse to live in a world where the answer to poutine is no

Bintliff’s American Cafe

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lust, feasting upon the morning after; pink flesh goads, succumbs, endures