Forever Isn't Over Yet

There’s nothing like a stroll down Columbus on a hot night -- crowded pavements, men in shirtsleeves and t-shirts, women in sundresses, people arguing in English, Italian, Chinese, French, German, Spanish, every window thrown open, the diners inside talking to strangers on the sidewalks, music and light spilling out. Il Pollaio is one of those long-lived North Beach restaurants too often overlooked, a modest joint with a limited menu. But damn, what they do serve is good. We had plates of roasted, moist, perfectly seasoned half-chicken, spicy fennel sausage, and fresh combo salads. We talked politics a bit, M and our houseguest, K reminisced about college life in Champaign, and while they talked sports I counted the number of times I heard either “Hillary” and “Obama” in the conversations at other tables. (Eleven. One slight anomaly – the name “Con-do-leez-a” pronounced with emphatic precision by an older, sharp-faced man leaning across his table and gazing fiercely into the eyes of his dinner companions, a couple of slightly younger guys in baseball caps. I couldn’t hear the rest.)

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