You know what Minneapolis needs?, part 643,994

Minneapolis needs a Greek restaurant. And, mind you, I’m not talking about one of those places that simply serves Greek food. We have plenty of those, and some of them are pretty damn good. No, I mean one of those restaurants, typically run by Greek immigrants, that stay open all night long, are staffed entirely by the owner’s extended family, and have menus longer than the complete works of Homer. New York has thousands of these, as does Chicago. Milwaukee has them, St. Louis has them, and Seattle has them. They’re great for when you need a plate of spaghetti with a side of falafel and a milkshake at three in the morning, or for when you get up really early and need a six egg breakfast mixed with chorizo and capers and washed down with a great big glass of chai tea. And they usually have cool names too: the Acropolis, Little Athens, or Jimmy the Greek’s. And, if you go there every day for six years, the proprietor will stop by your table in a grease-soaked rag, tell you dirty jokes, and call the sitting President of the United States of America a lying sack of shit. It just doesn’t get better than that.

Minneapolis doesn’t have places like this, though. And so our dining lives suffer gravely.