In the five days since we’ve spoken, dear reader, I saw a vision of the end–our end–and there was a kind of comfort made readily available. It was relief, placed within arm’s reach and in plain sight, yet it was also off-limits. This is probably the wrong thing to say after an absence, similar to spitting on your friend at the arrival gate in an airport, but there you go.
I started drafting an e-mail last Thursday, possibly the most important one I’ll send this year, and I’m still revising it. The relationship is a love-hate, hate-love, and often a hate-hate one. You know the feeling, I bet. You write it, leave it, revisit it, tear out your hair. You look at it with a fresh pair of eyes the next morning, only to wonder who the fuck wrote such tripe.
You’ll have to excuse me. I can hear my neighbor banging on heaven knows what piece of furniture. That’s his way of communing with anger, I guess, and maybe also slabs of compact wood. Perhaps we’ll converse this week with the frequency I need and you deserve. Or maybe not, I don’t know.
Brownbag consistently and passionately enough and the foibles of fine dining will become apparent and lay themselves unto your feet. Lest I sound like a dick for stating this, I can assure you I have truth to share. Plenty of it, in fact. Keep in mind restaurant victuals almost always taste better than what I can cook, don’t get me wrong, and we’re not going to discuss the food itself. No, I want to talk about naming.
Have you ever felt slightly ashamed for ordering something? Occasionally there is a menu item named in such a way that the only thing you want to brownbag is your head, so great is the shame, yet you forge ahead and sound ridiculous anyway. It doesn’t really make sense, I know, but it’s definitely there.
One of my favorite haunts on Long Island christens its sandwiches with titles such as “Deathwish.” Le Peep, Evanston’s premier breakfast destination for new students and their parents, boasts a selection of skillets with names like “Desperado,” “Wanderer,” and “Gypsy.” Harry and David offer their “Maverick” line of blemished fruit. Let’s not forgot the “Horny Monkey” at Flat Top Grill or the “Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity” at IHOP. I mean, shit.
I understand these aren’t four-star restaurants–probably the very concept of stars is foreign to their constellation–but these are the places people go. Am I more likely to blow a few hundred dollars at Chef’s Station or go to Chili’s? You get three guesses. Besides, the menus at fancy places are usually written in foreign languages, and who really has time for gibberish?
You probably know where this is headed. That’s right! It’s time to make our own crazy dishes. I’d argue the skillets at Le Peep rank among the most ridiculously named, mainly because the gradient between food and moniker is so large. Why name mixtures of eggs, potatoes, and cheese after the dubious elements of society? Because skillets, y’know, hazardous.
Whore Wheat Pancakes
Sinfully delicious. Seductively easy. Our loose and fluffy–did we mention loose?–pancakes will dirty your napkin and then some…for the right price. Try with Oh Christ Not the Clap Again Hashbrowns.
The Nonconformist
Is it a donut? Where is the hole? And why does it cluck? We can’t parse it, so you have to eat it. Down with the Man and maybe a warm glass of milk. Served with thick, black-rimmed glasses.
Suicide Platter
It’s an explosion of taste, but don’t duck under your table! Sample all our appetizers at a price that can’t be beaten or killed. Guaranteed to have even the godless heathens licking their lips–and then the sweet nectar of retribution! Includes your choice of medium Cole Slaughter or a giant Infidill Pickle.
The Rapist of Bohemia
Watch your back, because this bucket of wings will violate your culinary boundaries. Ask about our special sauce, but until then? Tell your tastebuds to hold still.
It was the lack of a comma that made yesterday’s picture so appealing, quite honestly, and of course the joy of thwarting grammar can only be enhanced by racial slurs. The white space also emphasized the futility of sermonizing and, in tandem with the stark black drawing, the very nature of existence was questioned, but that’s the art critic in me speaking. Hold on, my shovel just broke.
Why is moving overseas so compelling? What began as a passing thought has stuck in recent months, though I doubt it’s something I’d see to the end. Still, I can’t help thinking that far across the ocean, on a plot of foreign soil, lies something I didn’t even know I needed. I bet my French doppelganger is wondering the exact same thing right now, imagining a land whose streets are paved with Krispy Kremes.
Maybe it’s the simple act of crossing a large body of water. Cortez, the Pilgrims, Earheart–it worked for them. Accents are also hot. I realize I’m probably projecting my personal Shangri-la on an unsuspecting hamlet somewhere, portraying it as a salve for a phantom sickness, a cure for something I can’t pinpoint, when really the newness of it all would wear thin after a few months.
Can’t hurt to wonder, right? Let’s see, I know a little German, some English, also a bit of Mandarin. I’ve got money in the bank. Lease ends this June. Clearly I should set course for P.F. Chang’s.