Peanut Butter Glory

You take the risk. The plate arrives: a burger glistening with melted cheese, thick bacon, and a smear of peanut butter oozing at the edges. You hesitate — then bite.

The world shifts. The salt of the bacon collides with the sweetness of the peanut butter, and the beef anchors it all in smoky gravity. Somehow, impossibly, it works.

The bar erupts around you in invisible applause. A stranger in the corner raises their glass of craft IPA in your direction. A jackalope leaps from behind the bar and gives a solid wink and an awkward thumbs up.

Time slows. You taste not just a burger, but the strange alchemy of Charlottesville itself: a city both Southern and not, earnest and ironic, elevated and absurd. You have joined the cult of those who dared.

As you finish the last bite, you are no longer merely hungry — you are reborn. You are not a visitor, not a tourist, but a true local now, baptized in peanut butter and beer.

Try Again? (But why?)