Louisville Magazine

AUG 2015

Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.

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42 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 8.15 toward the trailer, instead heading into a room penned with sheep — more sheep, more prisoners! Tese covered in what look like nun habits. I have a staring contest with the George Washington twin (it's the colonial curls). Ten I spy a sheep with sad ol' eyes that remind me of a grandmother's, human stuck inside. Grandma Iva, is that you? Why didn't you bring your blow horn? Well, look who it is. My favorite mullet. Wild to see the same person twice in this wide expanse. All day I've hoped to run into a surprise glimmer of the familiar, someone I know at least kinda, but nada. Impossible. Maybe I've been passing the same people this whole time and only remember this one because of his party hair, the way he rubbernecked me earlier. Ol' boy is still doing the Dew. Now he's got a friend with him. Now they're approaching me. Now his friend is saying, "You intrigue me, taking notes," pointing to my journal, red pen. I smile, tell him about the magazine, note Mullet only has one tooth in his smile, that his shirt is the brand Duck Dynasty TM . (Note: Tere's a reason why the word "nasty" is in "dynasty." Bow to the duckin' bigots.) I notice the Midway behind the two men, where all the rides are in front of Kentucky Kingdom. Something like a Scrambler scrambles and the Ferris wheel fashes with the rest of the carnival bulbs and kids tear for tickets or brag all-access wristbands and there's a bunch of mid-air screaming and Mullet doesn't say anything, but ol' buddy wants a shout-out in the magazine, loudly spells: M-A- R-K L-E-V-I-N-D-U-S-K-Y. Tere you go, bro. Hungry now, and searching. Could do a gyro, funnel cake or some pizza, but those all somehow seem too normal. Same for the pulled-pork sandwich, which I seriously consider for its barbecue tang, for the buck- bang, the fatter platter, mac 'n' cheese/coleslaw/ baked beans. Could do the fair classics: the doughnut-bunned burger, a deep-fried Snickers or Reese's, but I'm not feeling the glaze, tongue- tingle of sweet. After following the deep-fried road concession to concession, almost to Oz, I remember it: the Hot Brown on a stick. A friend's suggestion and a personal curiosity, this blend of something so defnitely Kentucky balanced with 100 percent Kentucky State Fair. Next in line, my eight dollars at the ready. Smiles hands me the fry-battered stick in its disposable tray, covered in Mornay. I hand over my "thank you" and sit. Minutes later, fnished, unable to fnish. A dissection: dough a soggy body, no hoped-for crunch. Mornay a gritty mix, probably in the crockpot too long. Insides chunked like stacked hearts, and tough: ham/ turkey/grape tomato/ham/turkey/grape tomato. It's no Gibby's Hot Brown, the mouth-water I sometimes gift myself when home in Frankfort. Not the delight of cocktail-hour hors d'oeuvres at the weddings I work, the Hot Brown minis of which I take many. Plus, uh, where da bacon? westportvillage.com viastudio.com

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