“WINTER, 1973. Late afternoon: the entr'acte between dusk and darkness, when the people who conduct their business in the street -- numbers runners in gray chesterfields, out-of-work barmaids playing the dozens, adolescents cultivating their cigarette jones and lust, small-time hustlers selling ‘authentic’ gold wristwatches that are platinum bright---look for a place to roost and to drink in the day's sin. Young black guy, looks like the comedian Richard Pryor, walks into one of his hangouts, Opal's Silver Spoon Café. A greasy dive with a R & B jukebox, it could be in Detroit or in New York, could be anywhere. Opal's has a proprietor -- Opal, a young and wise black woman, who looks like the comedian Lily Tomlin -- and a little bell over the door that goes tink-a-link, announcing all the handouts and gimmes who come to sit at Opal's counter and talk about how needy their respective asses are.” — Hilton Als
0.0/10“WINTER, 1973. Late afternoon: the entr'acte between dusk and darkness, when the people who conduct their business in the street -- numbers runners in gray chesterfields, out-of-work barmaids playing the dozens, adolescents cultivating their cigarette jones and lust, small-time hustlers selling ‘authentic’ gold wristwatches that are platinum bright---look for a place to roost and to drink in the day's sin. Young black guy, looks like the comedian Richard Pryor, walks into one of his hangouts, Opal's Silver Spoon Café. A greasy dive with a R & B jukebox, it could be in Detroit or in New York, could be anywhere. Opal's has a proprietor -- Opal, a young and wise black woman, who looks like the comedian Lily Tomlin -- and a little bell over the door that goes tink-a-link, announcing all the handouts and gimmes who come to sit at Opal's counter and talk about how needy their respective asses are.” — Hilton Als
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