Look at how much food I got for 5-6 dollars at  the Brentwood Ralphs.  That's my thing now.  Lot of cold peple.  If it was another city, I would get it's just me, but they're cold to each other, too.  I'm basing this on one or two people who—whom, is it? I mean we're in Brentwood right now—may have come across.

That's some cooked carrots, potatoes on mushrooms—and any way you look at it, that's a lot of polish sausage.

This place is a gold mine.  I can see why they want to protect it.

And I wanted one single rib, but they only sold by the slab of $12.  I go, "Look, guy, where am I going to put it?  Where's Ralph?  Is Ralph here? Look, tell him it's Chester MacArthur's legitimate kid, the good one.  He'll know.  Look—I'm not well.  Just this morning, I wanted to ask a stranger to let me in on the secret."  So He gives me a sample rib—more or less that's how the story goes.   Don't believe me?  Look.  

Wait.  Don't look now.  Ok, now you can look: