Could I Get a To-Go Box Please?

You've been to Hill's Cafe, right? Nice place. The food is good and it has an awesome patio. It's a great live music venue. And it's got loads of home-cooked South Austin-y charm.

We had lunch there today for my brother-in-law's birthday, and were seated at a large wooden table topped with glass. The wooden surface bore hundreds of touching little memorials scrawled in black ink: names, dates of birth and death, and tender messages. "I'll always love you." "I miss you so much." "Best dad ever." "Beloved daughter, sister, and friend." "Our angel in Heaven, we'll be together again someday." And about fifteen inches to my left was a winged heart, drawn by a childish hand, the word "Mommy" spelled clumsily within.

What are you going to do, call the manager and complain? "Excuse me, the suffering of my fellow man is putting me off my cheese grits. Could we get another table?" But I couldn't eat. I was too busy trying not to cry, and anyway it's hard to swallow with a lump the size of a golf ball in your throat.

So I highly recommend Hill's, but if I were you, I'd avoid being seated at the Dolorous Table of Untimely Death.