About ten years ago, I found out about this place in Pittsburgh called Primanti Brothers. (Be sure to swallow it a little to sound more authentic; it’s sort of pronounced like “perMANee.”) Primanti Brothers was apparently a famous restaurant down on the strip.
Well, a famous sandwich place.
A famous, somewhat grimey, 24-hour sandwich place, if you’re getting the picture.
They were famous for a handful of things, not the least of which were their enormous sandwiches and grouchy waitresses.
I drive a small, 2-door, hatchback, black Focus. Driving along a busy street in Waco, Texas, one day, a large pick-up truck honked his horn at me. As is my standard practice, I did not respond, but kept both hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. I could see out of the corner of my eyes, though, that the driver was making quite a commotion, gesturing madly. I began to get concerned: had I left a book or my coffee mug on the roof of my car? No. Was my gas cap open? Glance out the mirror: no. Did I have a flat tire? It seemed unlikely. But I couldn’t resist not knowing what was going on, so I glanced to my right.
The man next to me in the pickup was holding a small key chain up to his window and pointing to it with his other hand (no hands on the wheel). What was the driver making such a commotion about?
It was a Steelers keychain. And we have a Steelers sticker on the back of our car, because my husband is from Pittsburgh. This poor guy just wanted some camaraderie. So I smiled at him and nodded, showing I understood, and he gave me a thumbs up before zooming by.