Spring in the District of Columbia is breathtaking and brief. The time between too cold and too hot is too short. Naturally, the natives become restless.
Besides cherry blossoms, I have vernal Washington associated with a sudden necessity to get out of the office at lunchtime. At some point, Cheryl would call, or I would call her, with simply: “Ollie’s?”
Then we’d take the walk from 12th and D SW to 12th and E NW, not far from the Old Post Office Pavilion on Pennsylvania, for the graceful greasy grub that was Ollie’s Trolley.
For me, it was the French fries, always the French fries: the superseasoned deliciousness of them, the only fries I’ve ever had anywhere with caraway seeds.
French fries. With caraway seeds.