He’s always the initiator, as I’m reluctant to impose on the 20-year-old’s social calendar.
Over Friday lunch he asks … “Drover’s tomorrow night?”
Me: You work?
He: ‘Till seven.
Me: (calculating drive-time) Might make us a little late. Proly crowded on a Saturday night.
He: I could see if I could move my shift up an hour. Leave at six?
Me: You can do that?
He: I can ask.
Me: I’m game. Just let me know.
For the uninitiated, Drover’s is a most sacred place.
The one constant on our family’s annual summer to-do list — its bona fides spoken of in unequivocal and reverent tones.
Best Wings on the planet.
There is no debate. There is Drover’s. And there is everyone else.
Consistently fried to crispy perfection. Every time. Never under- or overdone. Sauces sublime.
And part of a larger ritual born of, and bursting with, expectation.Continue reading