When we arrived at Red’s, the small hamburger joint we’d gone to almost daily as kids, I realized my stomach was growling. I was dying to get a couple of greasy sliders and cheese fries.
The restaurant hadn’t changed a bit since I’d last seen it. It had off-white walls, old Hard Rock café signs, four stools at the counter, and four small tables. We sat in the corner and put our orders in. Collectively, we got ten cheeseburgers, two cheese fries, an order of onion rings, three milk shakes, and three sodas. The waitress looked at us like we were crazy, but I think Bertha’s sunglasses should have been a dead giveaway that we were extremely hung over.
“Oh my God, this food is the s**t,” my friend said overdramatically, ketchup dribbling down her chin.
“I know, I haven’t had this in ages,” V
