Axe and Palm, light of my late-nights, fire of my bowels. My sin, my meal plan dollars. Axe and Palm: the tongue making me take a trip of three steps down Lomita to TAP, at two a.m., while tipsy. Axe. And. Palm.
It was Axe, plain Axe, in the morning, as some make haggard coffee runs in sweatsuits. It was Old Union while studying. It was TAP when texting. But in my eyes it was always Axe and Palm.
Did it have a precursor? It did, indeed it did. There might have been no Axe and Palm at all had I not loved, as a high-schooler, a certain initial burger joint. In a campus by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Andrew Luck was drafted as my age was then. You can always count on a hungry man for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of Residence and Dining, exhibit number one is what the gourmands, the misinformed, simple, frail-stomached gourmands, craved. Look at this tangle of carbs.