Flea Markets, Fried Chicken, and Flu Recovery: a perfect Saturday

Part of yesterday's healing process meant spending the day with one of my slowest-moving, most-relaxed friends, who I knew wouldn't require me to walk faster than a snail's crawl, and would allow me to be in the sun every possible second. We first strolled about the Ashby flea market, which, if you haven't gone, is EXACTLY the place you've been looking for, were you in the market for African tribal statues, Jamaican flags, troll dolls, vhs tapes of nude aerobics (the big-haired girl on the cover was wearing nothing but bright white high-tops), and fried food being sold out of the back of a truck, all set to the backdrop of a live drum circle of old black men. Basically: fantastic. I of course was not in the market for any of these things at that particular moment (but Deee's birthday IS coming up), so I was merely a joyful observer at this inspiring weekly market. Two other white people were seen, but they were your Requisite Flea Market Hipsters, the girl all long curly hair and vintage tee and the guy all huge brown sunglasses and olive green canvas messenger bag. You could tell they weren't going NEAR the fried food truck anytime soon, let alone buying bejeweled belt buckles the size of dinner platters sold the next stall over. I did for a moment hold up a blinding 'S' against my waist, but as soon as I saw that it was being sold by two Asians, I put it back. I want to buy my first belt buckle from a huge white guy in a mullet wearing a wife beater and sporting a confederate flag on his soiled cap. Some guy who has never HEARD of a rice-cooker and imports all his belt buckles from Taiwan. Call me a dreamer.

After we finished cruising this wonderland of bead-work and raisin tins, we went to North Oakland's newest treasure: Bakesale Betty. Please let's take a moment of silence for Bakesale Betty.

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Okay. Now I'm ready. YOU MUST GO TO BAKESALE BETTY. Don't be impatient with the length of the line like I initially was: it moves quickly. In fact, I counted thirteen people in the world's tiniest kitchen when we got inside. That doesn't count the five people manning the pastries. And don't worry about getting famished while you wait: they give away cookies and shortbread and bottles of water while you're standing outside. And while you're ordering. And while you're eating. I seriously walked away with three pecan shortbreads that I plan to nurse the remainder of the week. They just kept coming by with these little white sleeves: 'pecan shortbread?' And these aren't crumbly little samples in flimsy white paper cuplets. These are full-on, bon-a-fide, entire-serving-size pecan shortbreads that they sell in the shop. I was in heaven. Oh, and don't worry about seating, either: once they hand you The World's Heaviest Sandwich, just go outside, grab a stool, and sit at one of the many, many ironing boards lining the sidewalk.

You may want to go early: last time J tried to eat there, they ran out of sandwiches. You see, they only make two: egg salad and fried chicken. And fried chicken it was, and fried chicken it ever shall be. I felt like I was home on the plains again. It was peppery, it was perfect and white and crispy, it was covered in slaw and required a fork to eat the half that falls out when you pick it up. It was perfect 'recovering from the flu' food and I'm so glad I saved half to eat today.

This is their business card. I asked a gal if they had one, and she literally pulled out a pad of paper, found a stamp, and created it on the spot:

This of course appeals to my 'the more ghetto, the better' mentality, being an advanced white person and all, always on the lookout for 'authenticity.' So yes. Next time you're in North Oakland, and you're craving fried chicken and slaw and pecan shortbread (they also had killer-looking ginger molasses cookies and lemon almond scones), you must swing past. You won't regret it.