post- 03/15/19

In This Issue

Home Is?

Raelee Fourkiller 4

Brown Bear Loners

Caroline Ribet 2 Jordan Hartzell 4

On Belay Robert Capron 5

Red Dead Remembrance pia Mileaf-patel 6

Burrito Bonanza

postCover by Katya Labowe-Stoll

MAR 15

VOL 23 —

ISSUE 19

FEATURE

Brown Bear Loners

A Reflection on Dating and Dating Advice at Brown By caroline Ribet Illustrated by Gaby Trevino

F

rom a casual survey of basically everyone I know, I’ve found that dating at Brown University is tough. No one seems to be doing it right. Between Datamatch, Tinder (and the long list of other, increasingly popular dating apps), casual, serious, or in-between relationships, official dates, and weekend hookups, it’s hard to know what you’re getting yourself into when you put yourself out there.

And even though I don’t have any of the answers,

some of my friends, who agree that dating at Brown is hard, have convinced me to write this quasi-dating column. Dating columns, they told me, make the struggles of single life feel just a bit less lonely. Dating columns show concretely just how universal some questions are. In light of this request, I’ve written up a reflection of whatever I have seen work out, for me or others, in the last four years, and the questions in this article represent a mix of serious and silly queries sent to me as very official text messages.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Spring is finally underway! Thanks to the initially devastating hour of sleep that we sacrificed for daylight savings, it is now light even after you trudge out of your endlessly-long 4:00 p.m. seminar and warm enough for your cold-climate friends to compete to see who can wear the fewest layers of clothing possible. In this last march toward spring break, our lives are full of transitions and complexities and finding serenity in whatever we can, and this issue takes us through it all.

The feature this week explores the chaos and hilarity and heartbreak of dating at Brown. But does any heartbreak compare to the feeling of arriving at Andrews on the weekend, only to discover an infinitely-long burrito line? Or those pangs of loss that come with finishing video games integral to our childhoods?

2 post–

Why am I qualified to write this piece, you might wonder? I’m not, really. But after four years, I feel like I’ve been on the sidelines of every possible Brown University dating iteration and romantic crisis among my friends. Crushes not texting first or back or ever again. Floormates from my first-year unit wondering why doesn’t she like me or fretting about how to ask someone on a date. Friends proclaiming over lunch that “Romance is canceled!”—at least for the next few weeks. Worrying about what to wear

Ways to Celebrate the Ides of March

A&C takes on these challenges, opening our eyes to Providence’s ultimate burrito brunch and the glory of journeying through Red Dead Redemption. Our narratives this week meditate on embracing new places and experiences, with poetic words on finding home in scenes at Brown and a new passion while gripping onto the holds of a rock wall.

So, take a few minutes to enjoy postwhile you power through this week of midterms; we hope it revives you with humor and comfort.

Happy reading!

Sara

Feature Section Editor

1. Eat some Caesar salad 2. Say “Et tu, Brute?” to anyone who throws shade at you 3. Roast one of your friends 23 times in a row (lovingly) 4. Get yourself a soothsayer (or at least a fortune cookie from Wong’s) 5. Convince people it’s the Eyes of March, and they’ve been saying it wrong this whole time 6. Eat leftover pie from Pi Day 7. Party hard “among the common people with picnics, drinking, and revelry” (Wikipedia’s suggestion) 8. Settle your debts 9. Look at Ryan Gosling in the political-thriller movie The Ides of March 10. Google what the Ides of March is

and how much eyeliner to put on. Navigating hookup culture. Dating two people with the same name at the same time. Communicating a lack of interest in taking things further. Experimenting with the millennial love strategies proposed in the pages of The New York Times’s “Modern Love” column, like polyamory and open relationships. The closing of those open relationships and the opening of closed relationships. Old flames getting back together after time apart. Couples working to create new dynamics and falling back into old patterns. Heartbreak.

Wondering, is it even worth it?

How do you ask out a total stranger from your class?

Maybe try saying something like, “Hello. I’d like to get to know you better. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

I actually have evidence, albeit only a single example, to support this strategy. A good friend of mine was walking on Simmons Quad freshman year when a boy she had never met asked her for her name.

He said, “I don’t really know how to say this, but I noticed you in class [it was CS15] … Would you want to get coffee sometime?”

“It worked,” she said. “We’ve now been dating for three years.”

I feel like I should be dating, and I want to date, but I can’t seem to make it work at Brown. What should I do?

First, you don’t have to feel like you should be doing anything. Not dating is as valid a choice as dating, and lots of your peers don’t date. One Brown Daily Herald poll from 2012 found that close to 50 percent of students were not in any kind of a relationship. I was amused to learn that 2.4 percent of students polled said they didn’t know what kind of a relationship they were in—very relatable.

By not focusing on dating, you are conserving emotional energy and time that you might otherwise devote to non-romantic quandaries.

While you’re not drafting a text that says “u up?” you’re doing other things, like schoolwork, clubs, meditating, going to work, seeing your friends, exercising, and sleeping.

“Some people seem to always be in relationships,” pointed out one sophomore I interviewed. “But the Brown culture is very non-conducive to dating. If you hook up with someone, they’ll ghost you and never talk to you again.”

Despite this admittedly major issue, there are more than 6,000 undergraduates at Brown, so the odds of at least one person being attracted to you are high. People meet all kinds of ways. A guy in my seminar on Stalinism met his girlfriend at Brown’s gap year dinner. I know a couple that met in the basement of the Rock while searching for the same book. Another former couple I know met awkwardly in the laundry room of Minden while waiting for someone else to move their clothes. After, they went upstairs and made out. A few days later, the guy left a note on the girl’s door with his number, and they dated for most of the year.

How does one find love at Brown University when everyone is up to their eyeballs in work?

If it’s important to you, you will find time. If

schedules and dating are your thing, you can sync your Google calendars in order to find that one overlapping hour you have between lecture and seminar on Thursday afternoon. People are busy, but worse comes to worst (or, more appropriately, work), studying together at the CIT can be a date… right?

When should you send a text saying you just want to be friends, and when should you ghost?

Having been ghosted myself, I guess I believe it’s better to be honest from the outset: to say honestly that you are not interested in pursuing anything romantic. At the same time, the “let’s just be friends” text is not that fun to receive (unless you are also not interested—then, what a relief!) Ghosting is only really acceptable when you’ve had very minimal contact—like maybe if you have been on exactly zero dates. But before you don’t send that message, try to think about how the ghostee might feel with an empty inbox.

explicitly, which can be scary. Maybe try asking your friend on a date? Depending on how much doubt you have about your feelings being returned, it can be helpful to just say out loud how much you value the friendship. Getting friendzoned isn’t that fun, but it’s probably more fun than losing a friend to the dating game.

How do you get back out there after a tough breakup?

I hate to say this, but you know that cliche, only time heals a broken heart? That has been the only universal solution I’ve found in my first and secondhand experience. The only other thing that seems to help people get over their ex is meeting a new, exciting person. This is not to say that a few hours after breaking up is the best time to download Tinder, but maybe once you can get through a few weeks without crying over Jo’s mozzarella sticks at 1:00 a.m., a good first date can help you remember how much fun it can be to meet new people.

Even when I apply all of my amazing romantic theories and well-thought-out advice from my mom and friends, I just can’t seem to figure it out—and I feel like I’ve tried it all. Every stage is hard: single, dating, or in a relationship.

I’m not the only one who holds this opinion. “I feel like you should never ghost,” said a cool-looking guy I interviewed on the main floor of the Rock. “It’s better to explain where you’re at, and it’s just the right thing to do. Someone else’s feelings are on the line.”

I just sent a “let’s just be friends” text, and it turns out the person actually wants to be friends. What should I do?

This actually happened to one of my good friends, and it was really awkward (because she really did not want to be friends). Based on what we learned from this experience, I’d advise that if you actually want no contact with the person, you need to be more upfront in your text. But if you’ve already sent the text and find yourself in this troubling position, a good strategy to avoid hanging out with your new “friend” is just never finding a time that works, or taking hours to respond to messages.

How do you take a six-person seminar with your ex?

Avoid. Eye. Contact.

More generally, running into an ex around campus is inevitable if you leave your dorm. In my experience, it shakes you less each time it happens, a form of exposure therapy that actually works over a long period. And while it’s better not to have a weekly scheduled time to see your former significant other (like your three-hour seminar on semiotics), encounters might happen just because you have a shared club or hobby or spot in the library or crosswalk on Thayer. Take a breath, say “hello” (or “hey,” according to my friend who likes to limit her syllables, even in verbal communication, with her ex), and keep walking.

How do you know if the friend that you like likes you back?

Odds are that you probably have to say something

Plus, even though being single can feel lonely and awful, and looking for relationships when you’re single can be demoralizing (there’s really nothing like swiping through a hundred Tinder profiles and matching with absolutely no one), no single relationship defines who you are. Companionship and emotional sustenance can come in all kinds of forms, including romantic relationships, but also those with family and friends.

Even when I apply all of my amazing romantic theories and well-thought-out advice from my mom and friends, I just can’t seem to figure it out—and I feel like I’ve tried it all. Every stage is hard: single, dating, or in a relationship. I’ve sent the “let’s just be friends” text. I’ve been ghosted.

I think someone once pretended to have strep throat to get out of seeing me (you know who you are). I have been filled with self-doubt and enjoyed moments of self-confidence. I have uninstalled and reinstalled Tinder in the same day. I’ve leaned on my friends and broken all my own rules. I’ve called up exes when I swore I wouldn’t (and it’s never led to anything good). I’ve unfollowed, unfriended, deactivated, and deleted. I was in something I dubbed "an affiliationship." I’ve put my phone in the possession of my friends to avoiding sending a text, only to send it instead from my laptop a few minutes later. I’ve been unkind and led people on.

I have experiences too embarrassing or too painful to publish in this list. I’ve wondered time and time again if dating—with all of its pain, ups, downs, and seductive draws—is worth it.

But at the end of it all, I still have my closest friends who have carried me through everything, a thicker skin, and a collection of stories that weren’t funny at the time but I swore I’d laugh at later. Now, at least, I really am laughing.

“Another way to look at parentheses is like a hug.”

“She wants the D...and by D, I mean dinner.”

march 15, 2019 3

NARRATIVE I stretch out my arms, letting every inch of my being be touched Welcoming the day

Home Is?

Looking for Lost Pieces in a New Place

by Raelee Fourkiller Illustrated by amy choi Home is wide-open skies; indigo and cerulean blues, mixed with the lightest hues of purple and pink, like cotton candy Orange streaks line the sky, like someone took a paintbrush and ever so delicately blended and mixed the colors to make motion stop and heads turn up The Christian ladies used to say that god created our sunsets, Bold of them to assume I believed in their stories or that we had the same Creator Home is dirt-red colored hands from climbing mounds and falling down once my feet got caught up, after running too fast to catch two boys Wild ones, we shared the same name, their skinny legs and loud laughs and hair that always stood straight up— mimicking their energy and excitement I was always three steps too slow, my legs too short to span the length of their strides Home is the plains; that wind, the endless fields of wheat colored goldenrod, never having enough to do It is sitting on the swingset at two in the morning walking up and down roads with no destination in mind It is looking out for miles and seeing the rolling hills Shouting into the endless and vast sky for no one would hear my screams of anger and pain Home is the river that winds around bluffs and trees, sparkling prettier than a diamond when the sun hits It is the cool that splatters onto your skin when you dip your oar into the water, moving with the current, the bass, the perch It is hearing the shrieks and screams of little ones, splashing, kicking, learning to wade It is the summer Home is the sun, its warmth a familiar embrace that wraps around me when I step out in brisk mornings and the air smells sweet The birds sing morning songs, 4 post–

Home is now caught in small moments When I catch a peek of a clementine and raspberry sky When I pass by that one bush on my morning walk and hear the little chirps welcoming me, birds starting off their day correctly, brilliantly by singing, by thanking the sun for coming again, by saying, “Hello!”

It is when I see the beauty and love in my friends’ eyes, shining through the darkness that so easily attaches itself to my spirit Home has found me in this cement block, where structures of steel and sheetrock blind the miles of blue that have marked my childhood It has found a way into my life with bitter touches of wind and gray rains It presents itself As I step into the night and am greeted by the quiet lull of an empty campus and the stars speak to me Words of beauty, revealing what is missed in the frenzy No longer are my screams welcomed into a vast countryside But my whispers are heard

On Belay

Sunday Nights Are for Climbing

By Jordan Hartzell Illustrated by Ashley Hernandez We joke that climbers would make the best criminals. No fingerprints! Our identities have been rubbed off onto cold granite and colored plastic holds, but rocks keep secrets best. My hands aren’t that bad, though my pointer fingers feel a little cheesegrater-y—rough, shredded. Tiny rock edges wreck your finger pads, sandpaper grips rip apart your palms, unforgiving walls bruise your knees. That’s part of the fun: the physicality of it all.

Yeah, see that little crack? Put your toe in there with your foot sideways, yeah. Okay, now twist it, and stand up on the parts of your toes that are jammed in.

Yeah, no, you’re gonna lose feeling, that’s normal.

Distance running has taught me to respect Type II fun, the kind where there’s a hill between you and the dangling carrot. But climbing was a new kind of hurt, a little less huff and puff and a little more fear.

Fear of falling, of getting hurt, of not performing well.

Fears that are sometimes rational (I’d like to not come crashing to the ground when I let go) and sometimes irrational (I won’t belong here if I’m not good enough).

The irrational ones surface less frequently now, but it didn’t start that way. *** Freshman year, when I was a little too familiar with late nights out and not at all familiar with being alone, I spent a Sunday night at Central Rock Gym Warwick. “Sunday Night Climbing”—8 to 11 p.m.

I went on a whim, happy to have been included by new friends and eager to avoid homework. It was a 15-minute ride to the gym, which was tucked into the back of a business complex. Big windows revealed a rainbow of routes splashed across gray and dark blue walls. We squeezed rental climbing shoes over our socks, feeling self-conscious as barefoot regulars slipped into their sleek La Sportivas. I sported baggy sweatpants and an oversized cross country tee that bunched up under my harness as I fumbled to tighten the straps. One look, and it was clear that I was a newbie. I felt like an intruder.

A staff member taught us to belay—how to pull the rope and manage slack in the line so that the climber has room to move but can’t fall far down the wall when she lets go. There were commands we were supposed to use: Say ‘on belay’ when you’re ready for the climber to start. Then, climber, you should say ‘climbing’ when you get on the wall. Belayer, you respond with ‘climb’ to give the go-ahead. You got it? Don’t worry, you’ll catch on quick.

And just like that, we were trusting each other while the beginners among us pretended not to be scared out of our minds. As we eased into the motions of climbing and belaying, time on the wall became time to talk (and not the “Oh, you’re from right outside of New York, that’s cool haha” small talk of freshman orientation). That night, we worked together and tried hard and messed around and failed tragically and laughed and laughed. And I was sold. The first Sunday became the second became every. And then some weekdays. And then Saturday mornings at 7 a.m., when we indulged in trips to fancy gyms in Massachusetts and stopped for bagel sandwiches on the way.

Over the following semesters, we honed in on specific climbing styles that suited our strengths: Mark and Isaac loved muscley, overhung routes while Rekha and I sought out balance and flexibility.

I learned the language of climbing, how to fit the culture in my mouth without sounding too phony.

Yeah, I sent it, but it wasn’t an onsite. I don’t have the beta down yet, but I think it’s a heel-hook on that pinch and then dyno up to the right there. I learned when to curse and when to cheer someone on. What not to say when someone fell. I learned to wear pants with the bottoms cuffed and to tape my fingers so the BandAids wouldn’t come off. I learned how to ask for what I needed from a belayer and take breaks without letting

ARTS&CULTURE go of the holds. I learned that a climber is anyone who shows up and gets on the wall. *** It’s Sunday. I’m wearing a name tag that says “Ask me for a belay!” and giving advice to Central Rock newcomers.

Ohmygod I’m stuck and can’t move from here!

I know the feeling. I give a reminder to exhale and a pointer for where she might place her right foot. Tell her that she’s safe and won’t fall, that she should trust her body, and that if anyone can do this, it’s her.

And a defuser: Hmm, let’s see, can you go (pretend to think about it)…up? *** A good climber notices fear and then wraps something else around it. I think it’s pride in the movement: executing a sequence smoothly, timing a balanced position with my breath, or reaching a handhold that was too far away the last time. Digging into that self that will grit her teeth and grimace before she lets go. If she lets go. *** Tie a figure-eight at the end of your rope and slide the tail through the two hardpoint loops on the harness. Trace the eight back over again (and only throw in a safety knot if the gym manager is nearby).

Crack your neck, roll your shoulders. Reach back into your chalk bag to coat your fingers and palms, then shake your hands from your elbows to send a bit of powder into the air (it’ll look cool). Glance up at the climb, and close your eyes to remember how it felt last time. Hands on the start holds.

On belay.

Look back at the partner or stranger on the other end of your rope.

Climbing.

Climb.

Red Dead Remembrance Songs and Memories of a Wannabe Cowboy

By Robert Capron Illustrated by rémy Poisson 1 - “Far Away” by Jose Gonzalez

There I stand, a broken man, in the annals of a now-closed GameStop. My father senses my

of stories. Where they could go. What they could be.

What I could make.

disappointment; he asks if there’s another game I want. I shake my head, as determined as before.

3 - “Cruel Cruel World” By Willie Nelson

My loyalty to this epic cowboy fantasy will not be drained so easily. He scans the shelves, selecting

Eight years. That’s how long it took to make a

a random Guitar Hero sequel he thinks is a worthy

sequel. Prequel, technically—my beloved Marston

replacement. Is he serious? I don’t bat an eyelid. It

would now be a supporting character in a story set

appears he and I have reached an impasse, with me

before the events of the first. A part of me never

on the losing end.

thought it would arrive; the countless delays

Then, salvation arrives. Thank God for post-

kept dashing my hopes. And now, here it is. New

release content—that glorious eventuality when

protagonist Arthur Morgan stares up at me in muted

developers decide they want more money and release

rage, his posture a deliberate mirror of the original’s

needless additions to their games, often horrifyingly

cover. How would he fare compared to Marston?

overpriced and devoid of narrative coherence.

Only time would tell.

Enter Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare, a

Were my expectations too high? Perhaps. They

zombie-infused “what-if” scenario crafted by the

were bound to be. The mythical status I had given

main game’s developers and, conveniently, sold

the original made it untouchable. The old me would

separately. I lunge at the box and scan the ESRB

have beaten this new game in a week, would have

rating. No nudity in this version. Well, it’s better

dropped everything to discover the new additions

than nothing.

to the Red Dead mythos. Not today. I am, after all,

I give my father the box. He smiles.

twenty years old.

I wish I could tell you I jumped into it and

2 - “Compass (Red Dead on Arrival)” by Jamie

played to my heart’s content. I wish I could tell

Liddell

you I fell in love as I did with the first. That it reminded me yet again of the power of stories and

I cannot answer what my favorite film is. I find

enveloped me in the possibilities of narrative, of

so many elements, scenes, and performances worthy

gameplay, of story and structural mechanics. That

of mention across the medium that I frankly cannot

I felt like a kid again.

fathom a proper answer to the question. Yet, when

Instead, I played a video game.

Exposed breasts—his sworn enemy. The

it comes to video games, I have always known the

I spent hours investing in something that felt...

countless executions, f-bombs, and depictions

answer. I think it always will be the same. Maybe it’s

irrelevant. I had friends outside my door at every

of drug use are fine in my father’s eyes. No, it’s

because finally getting Red Dead Redemption (sans

moment’s notice, assignments I should have been

the threat of exposed breasts—virtual ones, for

zombies) signified a turning point in my childhood;

doing but neglected for that extra ten minutes, lines

chrissakes—that makes him recoil from the

being exposed to virtual breasts is a major kick in the

I should have been learning but put off for the mere

pre-owned copy of Rockstar Games’ Red Dead

pants toward adolescence.

possibility of stumbling across a secondary mission

Redemption I clutch to my chest. Despite my efforts

I still remember the sky. A lone man, lost in the

far off the beaten path. The world I had loved was

to hide it, he’s seen the content warning: His eyes

prairies, the stars scattering the heavens in a sort

still there, refined, beckoning me. But conquering it

found “nudity,” and all hope was lost. My babbles

of compass toward...something. It was all fake, of

felt like an obligation. A nuisance.

and whines are ignored as he orders me to return

course—tiny pixels composed of even tinier pixels.

the box to the shelf. Damn ESRB. You’re worse than

But nothing felt more real.

the MPAA.

I remember my rage at the heartbreaking

By the time I approached the ending, I felt relief.

It was nearly done. I had honored my commitment.

The twelve-year-old in me was happy. But was I?

You see, these were the olden days. Back then,

brilliance of the ending. The sigh of returning to

physical copies were an adolescent’s only option for

an old save despite knowing the inevitable fate

game purchases; the impending trip to GameStop

awaiting my hero—the scarred and desperate John

meant young gamers such as myself had to extensively

Marston—rendering dozens of hours meaningless

It was over. Arthur Morgan’s tale had been just as

research the titles available, carefully consider their

(unlike John, Mario was never shot to pieces in a vain

bittersweet as the first—and the graphics, gameplay,

length and quality, and, above all, defeat the worthy

attempt to save those he cared about). This gaming

and sheer amount of content had nearly quadrupled

adversary that is parental supervision. Lack of a

experience was something else entirely, impossible

in quality—but I was done with his tale, both literally

credit card made the virtual store inaccessible, so

to replicate. For this soon-to-be-teenager, childhood

and figuratively. Any sadness lingering from the loss of

when a title was finally chosen—within the range

wonder lived on. I was getting older, to be sure. But

his character would be forgotten to make room for the

of your parent’s budget, or your allowance—it was a

even on the hundredth time I descended my favorite

next big narrative death. Perhaps Avengers: Endgame.

momentous occasion. Imagine the heartbreak when

mountain slope, my trusty steed galloping toward

Yet I didn’t regret playing the game for a second. I had

this entire process was rendered for naught by the

the desolate town of Armadillo, the Western whistles

learned a tough but important lesson: for better or for

cruel rigidity of parental law.

accompanying my travels reminded me of the power

worse, video games were behind me. I was moving on.

4 - “Unshaken” by D’Angelo

march 15, 2019 5

ARTS&CULTURE And then, a funny thing happened. The credits didn’t roll; the game transitioned from a black screen to a view of a run-down farmhouse. I sat back, confused. Arthur was gone. What would this post-ending content be?

The barn doors opened up. A familiar face exited the stable, hopped aboard his trusty steed. The in-game world had opened up again, calling to me for one last ride.

And John Marston did ride, far into the night. The starry sky above. A refurbished world of old lay again at my feet. My mountain path. My legends.

I know the wonders of that first childhood experience can never be replicated. I’d be silly to think otherwise. But God, you can come so close.

Thanks, Rockstar.

Burrito Bonanza Tailor Shop Luncheonette Is Serving up Sunshine By pia Mileaf-patel illustrated by Rémy Poisson Looking for a breakfast burrito in Providence?

Or simply a cool new place to eat good food? Word has it that the Tailor Shop Luncheonette, open during the week for lunch and earlier on weekends for “brunchy stuff” (their term), doles out some of the most creative breakfast burritos in Providence.

I headed there with a friend last Saturday to find out what the hype was about.

See, breakfast burritos and I go back a long way. In the incident that would secure my infamy for trekking long distances for food, I made my friends drive 45 minutes to get one from an LA coffee shop that was supposedly excellent. Luckily, it really was. And with no line, if you don’t count the drive, there was technically no wait. Even my most anti-going-out-to-eat-food friend admitted she’d made a few solo return trips after she moved to the West Coast.

Though a 45-minute drive for a burrito seems like a far cry from the convenience offered at Andrews Commons on Saturdays and Sundays, it’s really not. I’ve only tried Brown’s breakfast burrito one time, and, in the spirit of full disclosure, it was just a bite of my friend’s because I did not have an hour to wait on that line that snakes around the perimeter of the entire dining hall. As an alternative, however, I have been introduced to the breakfast taco by a friend who hails from Austin, TX and makes them with bacon, cheddar cheese, and flour tortillas. And now, Providence offers an a.m. burrito that isn’t a 45 minute drive away and isn’t a dreaded necessity for hungry first years.

First impressions were strong. The menu was simple and appealing, and it appeared to change

daily. The coffee was bold, hot, and worth savoring even for weirdos like me who’ll speed drink 11 cups of diner coffee in a row. On the “brunchy stuff” menu, we saw two breakfast burritos, a regular burrito, a breakfast sandwich, and an array of taco options, including a Korean vegetable taco, a sweet potato taco (in the manner of Wes Avila’s famed Guerrilla taco truck), and a breakfast taco.

Sides were caramelized breakfast potatoes, and I honestly don’t remember what else, because those potatoes overshadowed the rest of the list.

When we were looking at the Tailor Shop menu, seeing the words “breakfast taco” sparked my interest. Without the benefit of Texan sunlight, how would it compare to my friend’s recipe? It was true that outside, on Broadway in Federal Hill, the ground was icy slush. But inside the lunch-counterstyle restaurant, Providence sunbeams were warm enough to make its inahbitants glow. They leaned over colorful, slow-fashion plastic dishes holding delicious Tex-Mex-inspired breakfasts.

My friend and I went half-and-half on both of the breakfast burrito options, and—why not?— ordered the breakfast taco, too. It came as a corn tortilla, filled with delicious crispy breakfast potatoes and caramelized onions, sprinkled with scallions, and topped with scrambled egg that, in the best way, was more sauce than egg—like breakfast aioli. We told ourselves this would be the best way to try the potatoes. I could only hope my breakfast-taco-slinging Texan friend would agree.

One burrito was filled with fried sweet potatoes and vegetables, scrambled together in a mix that included soft scrambled eggs, cheddar cheese, rice, and beans. The other folded in crumbles of mild chorizo and sauteed red pepper alongside the

“Consume a God donut and you will understand the yeasty truths of the universe.”

Claribel Wu, “Misprint Multiverse” 3.16.17

“Bill Gates founded Microsoft at 20; the only thing I’ve found is dirty teacups.”

Rebecca Ellis, “a quarter-life crisis” 3.17.16

6 post–

egg mix. Both came wrapped in grilled, soft flour tortillas, warmed up with the perfect amount of char, and carefully tucked to hold the insides. The hot sauce on the side—a fan favorite so beloved that several patrons were seen requesting extra cups— was tart and spicy and paired excellently with the rest of the burrito fillings.

We told ourselves this would be the best way to try the potatoes. I can only hope my breakfast-taco-slinging Texan friend would agree.

If you’re curious about what Tailor Shop Luncheonette is up to, Instagram is a good way to find out. They’re using social media benevolently, dotting your day with pictures of warm, appealing food. And it’s not all burritos. In January and February, they posted about soups, stews, and deli items, like chicken noodle soup with homemade, hand-pulled noodles and a turkey meatloaf sandwich with sun-dried tomato pesto.

In addition to its own menu, Tailor Shop Luncheonette has hosted a pop-up dinner with two of the cooking magic geniuses behind North Bakery’s savory menu (closed 2018—devastating).

All in all, there are some pretty cool food things happening in PVD, and checking out Tailor Shop Luncheonette is a great place to start if you want to get involved. It’s also a great place to load up on cheesy eggs in a soft tortilla, with the most excellent breakfast potatoes you can find on Broadway.

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