The last time we were at Sonny’s, Larry gave me a couple of these cards…he had found a box of them in a dark corner under the bar. They are from the early sixties, and Larry pointed out that the address (or maybe it was phone number) had a typo. Doesn’t matter, though. They’re still cool.
My kids love Sonny’s more than I do, they walk in like they they own the place. Zeke loves to trade jokes with Larry and watch Larry’s dad, Jr. (that’s Mr. Puccetti to you, son), pump his bicep. We sit in the red Naugahyde booths, kick our feet and relax. Sonny’s is one of those places that exists outside of time–it’s unique unto itself, and every visit is just like the last. Sonny’s Place is probably some kind of important nexus of the universe, a hangout not just for Galveston locals, but travelers of the astral plane. Maybe we’re just too blissed out on cold root beer to see it.
