I stumbled into a place called Trembling Madness, a name like that doesn’t just whisper; it calls.
Craft beer board caught my eye. Hunger in my belly.
I asked the bartender for a tap recommendation. She poured me a couple tasters.
I went with the Watermelon Sour, tart, playful, a bit unexpected. Just like the evening.
Then I tried to order food.
The Caesar Slaughter:
Crispy, bread-crumbed chicken. Punchy Caesar dressing. Steamy bacon. Parmesan snow.
But the kitchen had just closed.
I nodded, understanding. Ordered the drink. Grabbed a bag of crisps.
I asked for her name.
Scarlet.
A few minutes passed. Scarlet came back, smiling.
“Well… the kitchen ended up making me a beef sandwich,” she said.
“I know you said you were hungry. And there’s no way I’m eating the whole thing. So, if you’d like… half is yours.”
So here I am.
At Trembling Madness.
Sipping a sour.
Eating a sandwich that wasn’t on the menu.
Given freely, without ask — just offered.
Some places serve more than food or drink.
Sometimes, they serve grace.