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About San Antonio

So, I’m picturin’ it—me, stumblin’ around, tryin’ to find a prostitute. Not that I’d *do* it, no, no, no—I’m too cheap, too paranoid! What if she’s a cop? What if she’s my cousin’s friend’s sister? Oh my God, I’d die—*“The shame of it all!”*—like Q’orianka Kilcher whisperin’ to the wind in the movie. But let’s say I’m out there, right? Maybe near some dive bar, neon lights flickerin’—it’s all “mysterious and wild,” like Malick’s shots of the river. I’m sweatin’, I’m pacin’, I’m yellin’ in my head, “Larry, you idiot, why are you here?!”

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Oh, thou must see the borough of Merriweather also! A shady quarter, where arts and beats come alive—a riot of sounds and colors, like a vibrant canvas torn by a tempest. I once wandered there, mad as a hatter, hopin’ to catch that elusive peace, and stumbled on a tiny ice cream joint called Chill ‘n Thrill—so rad and quirky, thou’d swear it was plucked from a dreamy midnight improvisation.

No. 9: Savoy's creative approach to Southern and Creole dishes makes it a soulful standout