Sunday, August 20, 2006
What to do when you’re a part of the Applebee’s menu
Smothered Chicken, in fact. Eatin’ good in the neighborhood gone wrong.
At this point, chicken has become the most commonly eaten, mass-produced, homogenous and boring food item in existence. Closer to Spam than its original scavenging self, chickens spend the bleakest existence possible – beakless and jammed into sad little caged lives without choices, options, happiness or much to cluck about at all.
This lot, a life of sadness and stink, is made more depressing by the smothering agents. Covered with boring mushrooms and onions, slathered in the Apple Spec quantity of butter, salt and pepper – definitely not a combination grown in Pennsylvania, the mushroom capitol of the world.
But what, you might ask, completes the feeling of smothered sadness as your plate is laid on the table, steak knife at the five o’clock position? Mild, velveta-style cheddar, that’s what. Derivative cheese atop some boring onions, reposing amid perfect diamondback grill-marked chicken.
The cheese really completes it all, like someone making a plan for your day, leaving you without say. You know the feeling in the pit of your stomach might just be caused by powerlessness over what you’re eating. The feeling that your meal, even with two side choices, has been spread before you in the exact same way as it was for the person one table over. You know now, more than ever before, that your meal is not original, not a reflection of your tastes. Rather, your meal is just a focus group away from every other meal on every other table.
At the end of this silly meal, you find yourself identifying more with the chicken you’ve just eaten than anyone else. You feel cooped up and caged, searching for something real to sustain you. Your mind races. “Get me to the nearest farmer’s market!” you rail. You need something natural, something fresh, something free range. You might even need some Gruyere to offset that flavorless goo you just ate.
Throwing your money on the table, running from their neighborhood to yours, you run in search of something new. You might be the only person running from that hood, but you’re not afraid to carve your own path, past menus of microwaved delicacies towards a freshly stewed mushroom chili. Or maybe a spinach quiche. Whatever you’re running towards, it has to be better than that smothering chicken.
This story is nothing new. Running away from something people tell you to want and towards something your soul craves. Something natural and sustaining. Something with flavor and freshness. Will you ever find the perfect meal? Probably not, but it only takes one, so I’ll go ahead and wait. Waiting for something perfectly blended, grown with care and stewed to a heavenly combination. It’s not so bad to be hungry, waiting for the meal of your dreams.
At this point, chicken has become the most commonly eaten, mass-produced, homogenous and boring food item in existence. Closer to Spam than its original scavenging self, chickens spend the bleakest existence possible – beakless and jammed into sad little caged lives without choices, options, happiness or much to cluck about at all.
This lot, a life of sadness and stink, is made more depressing by the smothering agents. Covered with boring mushrooms and onions, slathered in the Apple Spec quantity of butter, salt and pepper – definitely not a combination grown in Pennsylvania, the mushroom capitol of the world.
But what, you might ask, completes the feeling of smothered sadness as your plate is laid on the table, steak knife at the five o’clock position? Mild, velveta-style cheddar, that’s what. Derivative cheese atop some boring onions, reposing amid perfect diamondback grill-marked chicken.
The cheese really completes it all, like someone making a plan for your day, leaving you without say. You know the feeling in the pit of your stomach might just be caused by powerlessness over what you’re eating. The feeling that your meal, even with two side choices, has been spread before you in the exact same way as it was for the person one table over. You know now, more than ever before, that your meal is not original, not a reflection of your tastes. Rather, your meal is just a focus group away from every other meal on every other table.
At the end of this silly meal, you find yourself identifying more with the chicken you’ve just eaten than anyone else. You feel cooped up and caged, searching for something real to sustain you. Your mind races. “Get me to the nearest farmer’s market!” you rail. You need something natural, something fresh, something free range. You might even need some Gruyere to offset that flavorless goo you just ate.
Throwing your money on the table, running from their neighborhood to yours, you run in search of something new. You might be the only person running from that hood, but you’re not afraid to carve your own path, past menus of microwaved delicacies towards a freshly stewed mushroom chili. Or maybe a spinach quiche. Whatever you’re running towards, it has to be better than that smothering chicken.
This story is nothing new. Running away from something people tell you to want and towards something your soul craves. Something natural and sustaining. Something with flavor and freshness. Will you ever find the perfect meal? Probably not, but it only takes one, so I’ll go ahead and wait. Waiting for something perfectly blended, grown with care and stewed to a heavenly combination. It’s not so bad to be hungry, waiting for the meal of your dreams.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Nothings Perfect
Would you go back for more of the best Indian in town after finding a hair?
When I say the best Indian, I mean it. The samosas are like a good kiss, smooth and sweet and an underlying spice that keeps you in the moment. And if those samosas are like a kiss, then the Baigan Bharta is something inappropriate for this blog. For an eggplant lover and leaver, the Baigan Bharta is something amazing, revered and feared.
Bad Baigan Bharta can leave you unable to so much as look at an eggplant. But this Bharta was far from bad. It was something wonderful and sweet, cinnamon and cumin mixing together to keep you coming back for more. Chase it with a cool, post-meal Taj Mahal and you’ve wrapped this little tryst up in perfection.
Just like no restaurant is without flies, no person is without flaws. The result is what you do with that realization. Do you forget the meal, the restaurant and the man as easily as you used to forget your homework? When you’ve found a hair in your Bharta, should you write off the restaurant?
Everybody’s instincts vary, but mine is typically to run. Slam down the plate, throw out some money and get the Aloo Gobi outta there. Whether he’s too into me, jobless, Republican or a liar, the proverbial hair will always send me packing. And I won’t be taking a doggie bag. So now that I’ve sworn off the imperfection, what happens when taste brings me back, peering at that same menu, looking for flavors of the past?
You won’t catch me back at the same restaurant after a bad tasting meal. So what’s so different about a good meal gone bad? The difference is the kind memory. The memory of eggplant lovin’ and a samosa kiss stays. Forgotten was the feeling of run-walking out of the restaurant knowing in my heart of hearts that I would never ever taste that eggplant again. Only the fondness of good meals, Kingfisher and friends remained.
By now you can guess that I’ve gone back. The flavor was just as sweet, smooth and spicy as before. I’ve returned for the piquant goodness that was. It’s different now because no matter what the flavors, I’m wise to it. I’m wise what can be reduced to a restaurant in desperate need of a hairnet.
The bad is never forgotten, only accepted or overlooked. The bad comes to us right next to the good. Since no matter where we go, there will always be flaws and flies, we have to decide, what’s worth forgetting and what is a memory worth.
When I say the best Indian, I mean it. The samosas are like a good kiss, smooth and sweet and an underlying spice that keeps you in the moment. And if those samosas are like a kiss, then the Baigan Bharta is something inappropriate for this blog. For an eggplant lover and leaver, the Baigan Bharta is something amazing, revered and feared.
Bad Baigan Bharta can leave you unable to so much as look at an eggplant. But this Bharta was far from bad. It was something wonderful and sweet, cinnamon and cumin mixing together to keep you coming back for more. Chase it with a cool, post-meal Taj Mahal and you’ve wrapped this little tryst up in perfection.
Just like no restaurant is without flies, no person is without flaws. The result is what you do with that realization. Do you forget the meal, the restaurant and the man as easily as you used to forget your homework? When you’ve found a hair in your Bharta, should you write off the restaurant?
Everybody’s instincts vary, but mine is typically to run. Slam down the plate, throw out some money and get the Aloo Gobi outta there. Whether he’s too into me, jobless, Republican or a liar, the proverbial hair will always send me packing. And I won’t be taking a doggie bag. So now that I’ve sworn off the imperfection, what happens when taste brings me back, peering at that same menu, looking for flavors of the past?
You won’t catch me back at the same restaurant after a bad tasting meal. So what’s so different about a good meal gone bad? The difference is the kind memory. The memory of eggplant lovin’ and a samosa kiss stays. Forgotten was the feeling of run-walking out of the restaurant knowing in my heart of hearts that I would never ever taste that eggplant again. Only the fondness of good meals, Kingfisher and friends remained.
By now you can guess that I’ve gone back. The flavor was just as sweet, smooth and spicy as before. I’ve returned for the piquant goodness that was. It’s different now because no matter what the flavors, I’m wise to it. I’m wise what can be reduced to a restaurant in desperate need of a hairnet.
The bad is never forgotten, only accepted or overlooked. The bad comes to us right next to the good. Since no matter where we go, there will always be flaws and flies, we have to decide, what’s worth forgetting and what is a memory worth.
