Dammit. Why am I always hungry for dinner after everything within three blocks has closed? What about ten o'clock tells restaurants to turn off the gas and shutter the windows? Even Rosamunde, blessèd be ye name, kills the sautée pan for the onions well before the bells chime in for ten. Now my choices are the "we-serve-alcohol-to-minors-and-then-lie-about-it" crumby taqueria Las Mesas, or the strangely doughy and tasteless Mythic Pizza. I suppose that Ali Baba, who put fried potatoes in the shawarma, are also open. Perhaps I do have choices, but I'm just irritable. I want a juicy burger without having to walk down to Sparky's. Ooooh: burgermeister!
has the mother of all interchanges. Somewhere I have a sadly-unread copy of the intimidating, scholarly Houston Freeways, Erik Slotboom's labour of love. It too has many impressive photographs, as well as interestingly detailed accounts of many roads, flyovers, and intersections.