It’s almost un-Seattleite to admit one has never tasted the slow-roasted, sloppy pork goodness of a Paseo sandwich. But prior to the hoopla of closing doors and social media outcries, the veritable lack of parking and indoor seating made a Paseo visit difficult to fit in the schedule.
They say shit gets real when you get married. And it does in the whole lot of vow making, ring wearing, debating about who gets which side of the bed kind of way. There’s something unctuous about it. Something delightful about pointing across the room and saying, “He’s my husband.”