I feel like approximately fifty percent of the average blogger's posts are about how they haven't posted in, like forever, so I'm going to spare you all the tedium inherent in this (the other 50% are about their cats, by the way) and just press on.
I'm going to challenge you with a problem that's been dogging me for the last month, one so deep that its profundity is only outweighed by its relevance. I speak, of course, of the dilemma of the Childlike Empress.
Anyone who grew up in the 1980s won't require an explanation but for thsoe that did not, the Childlike Empress ruled over the mythical world of Fantasia in the novel and later film version of The Neverending Story. Described as "much older than the oldest inhabitants of Fantasia. [...] or rather she's ageless," the Childlike Empress embodied the form of an "indescribably beautiful" ten year-old girl whilst ruling over the citizens of Fantasia as the physical manifestation of it's life force.
I recall watching this movie for the first time in Miss Finley's grade one class at Trafalgar Elementary school and thinking to myself, probably for the first time, "now that girl is pretty cute." Up until that point, girls had merely served as a vector of boogers, cooties and general, unspecified evil. The Childlike Empress really opened my eyes to their potential, not only as companions, but as unelected, omnipotent governesses of worlds that were far cooler than my own. I was smitten and while most of the movie made me cower with fear, the visage of the Empress still serves as a reminder of the commencement of the slow degradation of youthful innocence into salacious adulthood.
Now let me make it abundantly clear that, despite her being partially responsible for certain 'awakenings' at a young age, I do not in any way, continue to harbour feelings of any kind for either the character of the Childlike Empress or the actress that portrayed her. This should in no way be interpreted as the desperate cries for help from a closeted pedophile. I just happen to find the debate engaging in a very superficial way.
Suspension of disbelief for this discussion is paramount.
Let's suppose that the Childlike Empress is actually, for the sake of argument and the impossibility of defining the term 'ageless,' two hundred years old. For whatever reason she is here on Earth and, via circumstances too potentially inane to properly define, she happens to meet someone (likely but not necessarily a male) in their early thirties. They strike up a conversation wherein she is revealed to be the only two hundred year old person in existence.
Despite appearing to be an adolescent this is, without question, the most interesting person who has ever walked the Earth. She's lived through the industrial revolution, the American Civil War, the invention of flight, discovery of penecilin, Hitler's rise and fall etc, ad nauseum. Her knowledge and experience are simply unrivaled and her stories put the "Oh my God, did you hear what happened to Kim Kardashian" mentality of today's humans to shame. This person is, not surprisingly, drawn to the Empress in ways that are as confusing as they are compelling.
So the question then arises; if the two parties in question mutually agree to commence a romantic (but not necessarily sexual relationship), who is the pedophile? The thirty-something Earth dweller can be argued to be a sexual deviant for romantically pursuing one who appears to be a pre-pubescent human female. Conversely, the 200-year old woman could easily be argued to be exploiting the inexperience and relative naivité of the emotionally immature member of an inferior species who is one sixth of her age.
Trouble abounds! Is this a couple doomed to heartbreak, or worse - prison? Is this union any more morally bankrupt than 84 year-old Hugh Hefner getting engaged to a 24 year-old woman? The famous case of man on Jerry Springer wedding a horse? Charlie Sheen getting married to anyone? I submit the solution is not as simple as it would appear upon first consideration.
I'm not purporting to have an answer but I can state with full honesty that I hope I never encounter an ageless, ethereal super-being of limitless knowledge at an amusement park or something. The social and ethical ramifications and subsequent fallout would be far beyond what I would be reasonably expected to comprehend. I can't even decide whether it's right or wrong to take more than one free sample from the old ladies at Costco, much less handle something of this magnitude. Perhaps I'll email Steven Hawking for advice on this one. I'd wager he likes that movie too.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Monday, March 16, 2009
Um, actually....
Am I the only one that derives intense satisfaction from incidents in which some stranger comments on how cute some other stranger's baby is but mistakenly uses the incorrect pronoun? You know what I mean:
Stranger 1: "Awww, what a cute little girl."
Stranger 2: "Um, actually he's a boy."
Stranger 1: "Excuse me while I swallow my own tongue, an act I deem to be less uncomfortable than the embarassment I would suffer from lingering and attempting to justify my ignorant remark."
This is one of the best things I can conceive of and I wish it happened at least once a day. Maybe I'm the only one, but if you can't laugh at an ugly, sexually ambiguous baby, what can you laugh at?
Stranger 1: "Awww, what a cute little girl."
Stranger 2: "Um, actually he's a boy."
Stranger 1: "Excuse me while I swallow my own tongue, an act I deem to be less uncomfortable than the embarassment I would suffer from lingering and attempting to justify my ignorant remark."
This is one of the best things I can conceive of and I wish it happened at least once a day. Maybe I'm the only one, but if you can't laugh at an ugly, sexually ambiguous baby, what can you laugh at?
Monday, March 9, 2009
Theresa's
Saturday, February 7th, 2009
1260 Commercial Drive604-676-1868
Vancouver, British Columbia
http://www.theresaseatery.com
Brunch served Monday & Tuesday 8 a.m. to 2 p.m; Wednesday through Sunday 8 a.m. to 7 pm.
Co-operative. Most are familiar with the word but I suspect few really grasp what this business model entails. Sure, we’ve all been indoctrinated as to the benefits of co-operation via Jim Henson’s muppet-fronted socialist propaganda machine, Sesame Street, but what is it really all about? Is it hippies? Is it communism? More importantly, what the hell does it have to do with brunch?
Unfortunately, the very pleasant girl at Theresa’s counter seemed to know little about how their ownership structure functioned and even less about her own role in the co-operation nation. Who could blame her; we didn’t really care either. All the Breakfast Armada cared about was whether it would affect the quality of the meal (no) and whether or not we were going to have to do anything (oooh, yes).
Layabouts take heed! Those counting on exhaustive table service would be well advised to alter their expectations or prepare for disappointment and starvation. Theresa’s functions as more of a “build-your-own-breakfast” joint than a traditional set menu-based restaurant. Diners mix and match various fundamental edible elements from the menu whiteboard to form their own ideal comestible compounds. Orders are placed and payment made at the entranceway counter almost immediately upon entry.
It is now at the patron’s behest to co-opt themselves some coffee before finding a table amongst the unavoidable Commercial Drive hat-wearing, ukulele-toting hipsters. All pariahs, Unabombers and other such loners should keep in mind that, in the absence of available seating, you’ll be expected to share with people potentially even more unsavoury than yourselves. Two words: Bring mints.
Theresa’s does offer a few ready-made ‘feature breakfasts’ for those unwilling or unable to think on their feet. Such options included the $8 Hastings; comprising two appropriately earthy free range eggs, potatoes, toast and the choice of bacon or sausage, or the Grant; combining a vegan-friendly tofu scramble with tomato, avocado and the omni-present toast and potatoes.
Jumping at any chance to avoid thinking, The Armada’s Rear Admiral, Duck-boy, opted for the afore-mentioned Grant with lox and over-easy eggs. He sang the praises of the generously buttered toast and exceptional eggs but his avian eyes couldn’t conceal the envy invoked at the sight of the rest of the crew’s meals. It is with confidence and obvious self-reference that I declare him to have firmly missed the boat this week.
Ignoring the pre-fabbed pics, my choice was easy once I spotted the $4.50 stuffed French toast on the menu. I opted for strawberry over cinnamon “stuffing” and completed the ensemble with a couple of scrambled eggs ($2) and sides of home fries ($2) and wild lox ($3). The eggs and lox were both serviceable and the potatoes warrant their own discussion but the real highlight here was the French toast.
Theresa’s fabulous fe-mulleted cooks liberally distributed layers of cream cheese and sweet strawberry confection between slices of sesame-seed encrusted bread. Then, in a stroke of gourmet genius, they eschewed tradition and pressed the entire package in a panini machine, grilling it to a crispy perfection. Topped with powdered sugar and supplementary syrup, Theresa’s take on French toast is a true testament to the capability of lesbian collaborative cookery. Kudos.
Junior was trepidatious but also ultimately unable to resist the exotic allure of the fruit-filled French toast. Despite being “pretty sure” he was pleased with the dish, he found himself somewhat out of his comfort zone and at times looked like he needed someone to throw him a life preserver or, at the very least, a set of stylish waterwings.
The real talking point amongst the crew was the home-fries. These taters were unlike no others the Armada had absorbed in the past and they sparked a rather heated debate. Instead of the conventional crispy, deep-fried and lightly salted polyhedral potatoes, we were presented with a slippery, sepia, spud stew. The Dagobah of dining, if you will.
Despite initial reservations, I found that the deeper I delved into the starchy Satiation Swampland, the more enamoured I grew of its idiosyncrasies. Similar to Atreyu’s doomed horse, Artax, in the Neverending Story’s Swamp of Sadness, I was likewise powerless to resist the myriad of fresh herbs, onions and entire baked garlic cloves. Struggling at first, I gradually sunk deeper and deeper into the mouthwatering mire until it won me over and I was consumed by it. Falkor!!!
Sadly, my bland band of breakfast reviewers did not share my sentiment (or my detailed knowledge of that awesome movie). They just couldn’t wrap their heads around the concept of slimy potatoes and I think it really hurt their overall opinions of their meals.
Regardless, I still feel comfortable recommending Theresa’s sheerly for their transcendent French toast, smiling staff and their unique approach to a universal meal. If you find yourself confused by all the unbridled cooperating, just remember, there’s no “I” in team, but there is one in co-operative so get up and pour that damned coffee yourself.
Layabouts take heed! Those counting on exhaustive table service would be well advised to alter their expectations or prepare for disappointment and starvation. Theresa’s functions as more of a “build-your-own-breakfast” joint than a traditional set menu-based restaurant. Diners mix and match various fundamental edible elements from the menu whiteboard to form their own ideal comestible compounds. Orders are placed and payment made at the entranceway counter almost immediately upon entry.
It is now at the patron’s behest to co-opt themselves some coffee before finding a table amongst the unavoidable Commercial Drive hat-wearing, ukulele-toting hipsters. All pariahs, Unabombers and other such loners should keep in mind that, in the absence of available seating, you’ll be expected to share with people potentially even more unsavoury than yourselves. Two words: Bring mints.
Theresa’s does offer a few ready-made ‘feature breakfasts’ for those unwilling or unable to think on their feet. Such options included the $8 Hastings; comprising two appropriately earthy free range eggs, potatoes, toast and the choice of bacon or sausage, or the Grant; combining a vegan-friendly tofu scramble with tomato, avocado and the omni-present toast and potatoes.
Jumping at any chance to avoid thinking, The Armada’s Rear Admiral, Duck-boy, opted for the afore-mentioned Grant with lox and over-easy eggs. He sang the praises of the generously buttered toast and exceptional eggs but his avian eyes couldn’t conceal the envy invoked at the sight of the rest of the crew’s meals. It is with confidence and obvious self-reference that I declare him to have firmly missed the boat this week.
Ignoring the pre-fabbed pics, my choice was easy once I spotted the $4.50 stuffed French toast on the menu. I opted for strawberry over cinnamon “stuffing” and completed the ensemble with a couple of scrambled eggs ($2) and sides of home fries ($2) and wild lox ($3). The eggs and lox were both serviceable and the potatoes warrant their own discussion but the real highlight here was the French toast.
Theresa’s fabulous fe-mulleted cooks liberally distributed layers of cream cheese and sweet strawberry confection between slices of sesame-seed encrusted bread. Then, in a stroke of gourmet genius, they eschewed tradition and pressed the entire package in a panini machine, grilling it to a crispy perfection. Topped with powdered sugar and supplementary syrup, Theresa’s take on French toast is a true testament to the capability of lesbian collaborative cookery. Kudos.
Junior was trepidatious but also ultimately unable to resist the exotic allure of the fruit-filled French toast. Despite being “pretty sure” he was pleased with the dish, he found himself somewhat out of his comfort zone and at times looked like he needed someone to throw him a life preserver or, at the very least, a set of stylish waterwings.
The real talking point amongst the crew was the home-fries. These taters were unlike no others the Armada had absorbed in the past and they sparked a rather heated debate. Instead of the conventional crispy, deep-fried and lightly salted polyhedral potatoes, we were presented with a slippery, sepia, spud stew. The Dagobah of dining, if you will.Despite initial reservations, I found that the deeper I delved into the starchy Satiation Swampland, the more enamoured I grew of its idiosyncrasies. Similar to Atreyu’s doomed horse, Artax, in the Neverending Story’s Swamp of Sadness, I was likewise powerless to resist the myriad of fresh herbs, onions and entire baked garlic cloves. Struggling at first, I gradually sunk deeper and deeper into the mouthwatering mire until it won me over and I was consumed by it. Falkor!!!
Sadly, my bland band of breakfast reviewers did not share my sentiment (or my detailed knowledge of that awesome movie). They just couldn’t wrap their heads around the concept of slimy potatoes and I think it really hurt their overall opinions of their meals.
Regardless, I still feel comfortable recommending Theresa’s sheerly for their transcendent French toast, smiling staff and their unique approach to a universal meal. If you find yourself confused by all the unbridled cooperating, just remember, there’s no “I” in team, but there is one in co-operative so get up and pour that damned coffee yourself.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
9th Avenue Grill
Saturday, January 24th, 2009
9th Avenue Grill
1822 West Broadway
Vancouver, British Columbia
tel. 604.714.0744
http://www.9thavenuegrill.com
Anticipation – it was what made Carly Simon late and it’s what kept her waiting. Lame as I’ve always thought that song was, I couldn’t force it’s banal refrain from mind as we lingered for over an hour in the entrance to the 9th Avenue Grill on Broadway and Burrard. Clearly this was a sign: we need to start reviewing restaurants beyond walking distance of my apartment.
As much as I love breakfast, the meal’s inherent broad appeal and corresponding availability dictate that it’s not worth waiting more than 20 minutes for. If I’m required to queue any longer than this, I start to get agitated and develop all manner of nervous tics. This is usually accompanied by foul language which increases in both frequency and volume, the longer I wait; sort of a temporary Tourette syndrome. This is one of the pre-eminent reasons I never eat at Sophie’s Cosmic Café. Another reason is that most nursing homes serve tastier food.
I’ll admit it’s probably unfair to fault a restaurant for being popular. What is fair to fault it for is its complete lack of decorative inspiration or charm. The longer we waited, the more nondescript our surroundings became. Even the name, “9th Avenue Grill” leads one to infer that it was decided upon hurriedly whilst filling out the application for the business license. Ever the optimist, I insisted upon reserving final judgment until the food arrived. If the better things in life were worth waiting for, this veggie hash was going to lift me to new heights of satisfaction. Of course, I used the same reasoning prior to the release of “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” and we all know how that turned out.
I’ll admit it’s probably unfair to fault a restaurant for being popular. What is fair to fault it for is its complete lack of decorative inspiration or charm. The longer we waited, the more nondescript our surroundings became. Even the name, “9th Avenue Grill” leads one to infer that it was decided upon hurriedly whilst filling out the application for the business license. Ever the optimist, I insisted upon reserving final judgment until the food arrived. If the better things in life were worth waiting for, this veggie hash was going to lift me to new heights of satisfaction. Of course, I used the same reasoning prior to the release of “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” and we all know how that turned out.
Expecting perfection, what finally arrived in front of me could be more accurately described as perplexing. The hash itself was obscured beneath some kind of mini-omelette; a dry, unseasoned blanket of egg sparingly sprinkled with Monterey Jack cheese. The pedestrian combination of veggies and home fries that lay beneath was mediocre at best. Garden-variety peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes and onions failed to either excite or offend the palate and without the usual runny poached-egg yolk, it lacked a unifying element. I could readily recall adult film plotlines with more cohesiveness than my meal. Not a good start.
The Armada’s Monkeylover had a more encouraging reaction to her $8.99 Denver Omelette. The Denver or Western, as it’s known in most parts of the country, is traditionally filled with ham, onions and green peppers. 9th Avenue’s version introduced sautéed mushrooms, diced tomatoes and cheesy topping to the mix, all seemingly welcome additions. Monkey praised the quantity of the requisite veggies and delighted in the abundance of cheddar and Jack cheese gilding the surface. Things were looking up until…
M’s attempt at breakfast landed squarely on the opposite end of the satiation spectrum. His recent predilection towards pancakes provoked his selection of the $6.25 plate, which he supplemented with a $2.75 sausage addendum. Although the menu indicated the ‘cakes were meant as a meal, what arrived could only be accurately described as a side. Thin, flavourless and inexplicably speckled with parsley, they served as little more than a vehicle for maple syrup. Those looking for a similar experience would be advised to avoid the one-hour wait and pick up some McGriddles at the local drive-thru. This was indeed a dining failure of Arch Deluxe-ian proportions.
Vying with M for the title of the day’s most dissatisfied diner was Jamie. Her choice of the $7.25 french toast was rejected with the severity and unflinching determination that “Saved by the Bell’s” Lisa normally reserved for each one of Screech’s clumsy advances. Advertised as three “thick slices of egg bread,” the meal was an unqualified disappointment. The bread itself was thin, bland, chewy and had a ‘papery flavour'. The above-average tasting side of bacon did little to assuage her discontent as, at an additional $2.75, she felt it should have been included in the price of the meal. Not all news was bad, however, as she did agree to attend the Bayside High Tigers pep rally with me the following week.
Building on that positive note, Duckboy was, for the most part, satisfied with the 9th Avenue version of the standby classic. The over-easy eggs were cooked perfectly, the bacon was high calibre and his selection of bread (amongst white, brown, rye and sourdough) was evenly buttered and still hot from the toaster. The eggs did bear a slightly dry cast, betraying a brief stint under the heat lamp but this was looked upon as a mere misdemeanour given the magnitude of the brunching crimes taking place around the table.
As sub-standard as our experience was, I do want to put in a good word for the hard-working wait staff. Their effort was honest and tireless but they were clearly flummoxed and the understaffing was painfully apparent. Sadly, the only way 9th Avenue can be recommended is for those who don’t mind waiting and are willing to keep it very simple. As for my crew, well, when the light fixtures are the highlight of your breakfast, it’s safe to assume that repeat visits are not in the cards. Two and a half hours after first arriving, The Breakfast Armada was still hungry for a filling meal while the 9th Avenue Grill was still starving for an identity.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Salade de Fruits Café
Saturday, December 20th, 2008
Salade de Fruits Café
1551 West 7th Avenue
Vancouver, British Columbia
tel. 604.714.5987
http://www.saladedefruits.com
Brunch served Saturdays from 10am to 2:30 p.m.
After several years of being undeservedly ridiculed and ostracized, The French finally seem to be regaining the respect that they’re due. The Iraq war turned out to be just as much of a clusterfuck as their leaders predicted while Michael Moore’s “Sicko” illuminated not only their fine medical system but also their admirable penchant for working as little as humanly possible. Hell, even their new president has contributed to this most recent chapter of the French Renaissance by extending the olive branch to the States and ditching his aging, wrinkly wife for an Italian nude model/pop-star/hottie. Formidable!!
As Freedom Toast disappears from menus and societies' collective consciousness, we at the Armada decided to celebrate by taking our own municipal trans-Atlantc flight down ot the Francophone Cultural Centre on 7th Ave. It is here amongst the free clinics and overpasses where you'll find Salade de Fruits, one of the city's hidden breakfast gems. Promoting authentic French food prepared and served by real-life French people, this small café is often overlooked due to its dismal location and exceedingly nondescript exterior. These trifles should not dissuade the avid brunch gourmet, however, as Salade de Fruits offers one of the most delectably affodable petite déjeuners in town.
The décor, as one would expect, is a hodgepodge of all things French. You like cheap souvenirs? Well, so does whoever owns this restaurant! The space ostensibly extends into the foyer of the Cultural Centre, making for a bit of an odd and occasionally drafty setup. During the summer, I’d recommend getting there early and snagging one of the South-facing patio seats. While exposure to direct sunlight rarely enhances breakfast dishes, it’s a safe bet that the average pasty Canadian face could benefit from a little UV.
As far as services goes, the wait staff is composed entirely of francophones and the quality of their attention varies tremendously depending on what language you speak. I’ll give you one guess as to which mother tongue will result in the more amiable server but hey, how authentic would a French dining experience be without the haughty attitude? Thankfully, our waitresses plunging décolletage adequately compensated for her shortcomings in the congeniality department.
My selection today, amongst the four Ouefs Benny aux choix, was the saumon fumé (smoked salmon). Now, most breakfast restaurants in Vancouver offer some variant of this “West Coast” classic benedict and S.de F. is no exception. The most notable distinguishing characteristics are their unique hollandaise and the replacement of the traditional (and in this case, blasphemous) English muffin base with a more delicate biscuit. At $7.99, you’d be hard pressed to find a benedict throughout the city offering more flavour for money.
Duckboy also anted up for a benny, his choice being the more traditional version comprising little more than ham and hollandaise. Although he lamented a first-bite vinegar tinge, he lauded the overall execution of this classic, going so far as to highlight the fluffiness of his egg whites. Oh, Duckboy. Whilst “my compliments to the fluffer” would serve as high praise in certain industries, those at the table were unanimous in our discouragement of his passing along this particular sentiment to the staff.
All of Salade de Fruits’ Bennies (and omelettes) come with their amazing version of seasoned home fries and a distinctive selection of accompanying breakfast meat. Ducky extolled the virtues of his spectacularly crispy bacon while the rest of the jury is still deliberating whether or not the lamb sausage was guilty of being too damn smoky.
Both visiting from their adopted countries, Toad and Lang-Dang opted for $7.99 omelettes of the ham/cheese/mushroom variety. Lang declared his meal to be excellent, specifically citing the smell and taste of the skillet’s pan-searing that had been infused into the eggs. Toad was complimentary overall but, being the international gastronome that he is, felt the brie could have used more of a nose. I tell you, this guy moves to Europe and all of a sudden he’s Jamie frickin’ Oliver. Ignoring this minor quibble, value for money was at the top of his list of many accolades.
Of course, for Salade de Fruits to offer food of this quality for this price, there must be a catch. Upon closer inspection, there are indeed several catches, all of which can be uncaught if one is willing to succumb to the very particular and very, very lazy nature of the French.
Apart from the afore-mentioned laissez-faire service, said catches are as follows; 1) Cash is the only acceptable method of payment and any attempts to remit via other means will be met with snide dismissal. 2) Coffee refills fall on the wrong side of free. This is a real pet peeve of mine as I feel it’s the one area where thrifty patrons such as myself can really exploit small business owners. 3) Brunch is served from 10:00am to 2:30pm ONLY on Saturdays. Evidently French people cannot be bothered to haul their Gallic asses out of bed before 10 am on any other day of the week. This leaves brunch-hungry diners with a very small window of opportunity.
Stereotypical nuances aside, I really enjoyed the breakfast offered up at Salade de Fruits and the rest of the Armada was in agreement. Reasonably priced French food of this calibre should the expectation rather than the example par excellence. Now, with countless breakfasting shores to plunder, I must attempt to conclude this review without resorting to a hackneyed “Bon Appétit.” Oh, goddamn it.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Fets Pasta Bar and Grill
Saturday, January 3rd, 2009
Fets Pasta Bar & Grill
1230 Commercial Drive
Vancouver, British Columbia
tel. 604.255.7771
Fets is a place we’d been meaning to hit up for years but for some inexplicable reason, let’s call it “sloth” for sake of argument, had just never gotten around to it. In an effort to placate some of the now suburbanite (and subordinate) members of the Armada, I suggested a more centrally located haunt. Despite the snowy conditions, we made our way down to the Drive and in doing so, were richly rewarded by one of our best breakfasting experiences in a long while.
Self-described “Pasta Bar” by night, the restaurant’s motif is decidedly pop culture, brandishing murals of the usual array of dead celebrities supplemented with a healthy dose of the Rolling Stones. Come on, is there anyone under 45 who still thinks the Stones in any way meet even the most liberal definition of cool? If you’re out there, we need to have a frank exchange of ideas as soon as possible. At any rate, the space itself is large, even drafty, but there are a lot of nooks and velvety couches to allow for a satisfyingly intimate meal with your own swarthy crew.
Our server, Veronique, was cut from the Armada’s type of cloth: attentive, patient and knowledgeable. She was also unabashedly hung-over but never let it interfere with her service or tableside manner. Coffee cups were refilled promptly but without prompting while upselling was soft, remorseful and only done to legitimately enhance the meal. Our wait time was reasonable and when the food did arrive, it took our combined Tetris skills to arrange and accommodate the vast array of plates and side dishes.
After inexcusably mistaking a likeness of Jimi Hendrix for Lionel Ritchie, Junior attacked his $11 chorizo hash with gusto. Rich in delicately fried onions and peppers, the hash was topped with two poached eggs and offered the choice of toast or, as a very enticing option, an English muffin. The meal was awarded top marks although he bemoaned the lack of a ‘certain sauciness’ that I suppose he’d come to expect from the likes of Milestones’ borderline inedible, barbeque-sauce soaked prime-rib hash. I personally appreciate a drier, crisper hash and prefer the option of adding any additional sauces myself.
J-llows, Junior’s long-suffering wife, is admittedly not the biggest breakfast fan, but enjoys the social aspect of the meal. Her choices tend to err on the side of conservatism and today was no exception with her selection of the $7 Full House. Both as simple and as easy as Jessica Simpson, this dish consisted of two free range eggs (done in the diner’s requested style), hash browns and toast. Every breakfast restaurant I’ve ever been to serves a variant of this meal and if you can’t get it right, you’re not going to get a lot of repeat business. Fets’ Full House was well-executed, attractively presented and would handily satisfy the less adventurous members of your party.
Ever the insatiable beast, M opted for the $12 Big Meal, comprising two eggs (any style), two pancakes, hash and a choice of ham, bacon or sausage. Like Leann Rimes, this sucker is all about value (Barenaked Ladies alert!!) as the gargantuan pancakes alone justify the pricetag. Available in a simple buttermilk or more flashy fruit-filled version, these ‘cakes were dense, delicious and dripping in syrup. Recommended for fans of both nitrates and carbohydrates.
As for my meal, well, it’s nearly impossible for me to say anything negative about something as innovative as a perogy hash. I have always deemed perogies to be one of Mother Nature’s perfect foods and the mere idea of utilizing them in a breakfast meal is immediately compelling. “How did they pull it off,” you ask? Imagine a deep dish of traditional Slavic dumplings, fried up with a spicy blend of peppers, onions and andouille sausages, then topped with a couple of medium-poached eggs. Perfection? Not until the masterfully upsold side of sour cream arrived to complete the ensemble. I ate voraciously and succumbed to a Ukrainian daydream, complete with cheap vodka, mail-order brides and good-time nuclear fallout.
Complaints? The general consensus amongst the group was that the eggs were somewhat overcooked and the single-slice-of-melon fruit garnish was underwhelming. The coffee was of the tolerable restaurant variety and the OJ looked and tasted like it had been cut with Sunny D, a definite negative for anyone not named Juno. I also really feel that if one is expected to shell out fourteen bones for a perogy hash, the price should damn well include the sour cream.
However, when faced with a great meal and overall fantastic experience, these were minor objections and all in attendance agreed that they’d return without hesitation. Hell, if they took down that grade seven, c-minus student’s, aluminum foil, blinking UFO science project hanging from the ceiling, I might even come back for dinner. ‘Til next time, never forget the most important meal of the day,
Dirty Johnny
Thursday, December 11, 2008
My Non-Surgical Lobotomy
**Editor's Note - Once again my brother Paul has supplied me with content, compensating for my abject shiftlessness. I hope you enjoy. - Ryan**
I handed her two hundred dollars, slapped her ass and sent her on her way. She was worth every penny. I took a picture of the hotel room. Beer cans were strewn on the floor, ashtrays overflowed, white powder laced the coffee table and the bed sheets were satisfyingly disarrayed. This picture would serve as my final souvenir of my hedonistic ways. It was time to give up my life of debauchery. I needed to start planning my long term future. I’d recently perused various religious texts in search of posthumous solace. One religion appealed to me beyond all others: fundamentalist Mormonism.
I’d decided to become a FLDS Mormon for three important reasons: I wanted to let god take care of my problems; a harem of servile wives sounded appealing; and lastly I wanted to indulge my narcissism to the fullest. Though I will miss my vices and possibly my mind, I felt it was necessary to hedge my bets. Eternal damnation sounds like a real downer.
I’m tired of thinking for myself. Grappling with the modern zeitgeist of an ever changing world is hard work. Learning new concepts makes my brain hurt. Solving problems takes ingenuity and tenacity. I’ve seen the light. There is an easier way. I just have to shut off my brain, let my eyes glaze over, feel the drool accumulate in the corner of my mouth and give myself over to the power of prayer. Mormonism, like most religions, states that everything that happens is God’s design. Adopting this philosophy would mean I become immune to criticism and accountable for nothing. I can finally stop thinking and put myself in the church’s capable hands. I will be able to hide behind dogma and antiquated notions without ever again having to wrestle with complex scientific ideas like a heliocentric solar system. That always sounded like witch talk to me. The Christians should have burned that trouble-maker Galileo at the steak when they had the chance. From now on ‘God did it’ will serve as my all encompassing answer to every question. I wonder how I will keep my ears and mind insulated from common sense and rationale. Hopefully there’ll be a seminar. Instead of trying to fix my problems or think through a dilemma, I will simply drop to my knees and beg a celestial dictator to deal with them. Being a Mormon is going to be swell.
One aspect of fundamental Mormonism I’m eagerly anticipating is the bonanza of obedient wives I’m entitled to. The FLDS split from mainstream Mormonism in the early 1900s when plural marriage was renounced and practitioners of plural marriage were excommunicated. People probably have a very negative view of the quality of Mormon woman given the recent news coverage on the raid of the FLDS compound in Texas. People who watched the endless coverage on CNN may be put off by the unusually high number of FLDS women sporting the uni-brow, but I won’t be so easily dissuaded. While I agree that most of these women fall on the wrong side of homely, I hold out hope that I can mine a few diamonds in the rough.
The best part is that the religion demands the obedience and fidelity of its women. I won’t have to go through the hassle of being an interesting and thoughtful person to earn their loyalty and respect. I won’t have to be genuinely interested in them either nor will I have to suffer the indignation of treating them as equals. I will be able to keep them in line with threats of eternal damnation and excommunication. This is going to be keen.
Where Mormonism really sets itself apart from other religions is that it has gone that extra mile to appeal to the megalomaniac in everyone. Other religions offered perks that piqued my interest. For example, certain sects of Islam promise the bizarre and excessive benefit of seventy-two virgins upon death. That is mighty tempting, but I prefer a girl who’s been around the block a few times.
Becoming a Scientologist would give me the chance to rid myself of those pesky body thetans that were planted there by intergalactic warlord Xenu. While Xenu has been a thorn in my side for some time now, the advantage of ridding me of him and his inflicted maladies doesn’t compare to the impressive afterlife benefits package offered by the Mormon religion. In addition to the eternal bliss that is a staple of most religions, I will have the rare opportunity of becoming a god myself with dominion over my own personal planet. Yes, Mormons actually believe this. That is what ultimately sold me, though I often wonder if I’ll be required to pray to myself. That wily Joseph Smith truly knew how to buy loyalty and manipulate the masses. As God of my own planet, my first order of business will be to banish all the Mormons and import some strippers. Being a god is going to be super.
Mormonism isn’t for everyone. Though I relish the idea of becoming an empty-headed polygamist deity, it probably won’t appeal to some. Still, I would encourage everyone to seek out a religion or belief system that discourages independent thought, appeals to narcissism, peddles easy answers, coerces through fear, represses human sexuality, spits in the face of gender equality and holds superstition in higher esteem than reason. People should decide which combination of some or all of these appeals to them and chose their religion accordingly.
Whether it be Jesus, Moses, Zeus, Muhammad, L . Ron Hubbard, or the morning horoscope, people should have a messiah whose teachings they obey without question. Who needs a brain when insecure men in goofy hats can tell us exactly how we should live our lives. If everyone does his or her part we can forget about that bleak time known as The Age of Enlightenment and go back an ideal time where science, literature, art and women are kept under the thumb of religious dogma: where they belong.
I handed her two hundred dollars, slapped her ass and sent her on her way. She was worth every penny. I took a picture of the hotel room. Beer cans were strewn on the floor, ashtrays overflowed, white powder laced the coffee table and the bed sheets were satisfyingly disarrayed. This picture would serve as my final souvenir of my hedonistic ways. It was time to give up my life of debauchery. I needed to start planning my long term future. I’d recently perused various religious texts in search of posthumous solace. One religion appealed to me beyond all others: fundamentalist Mormonism.
I’d decided to become a FLDS Mormon for three important reasons: I wanted to let god take care of my problems; a harem of servile wives sounded appealing; and lastly I wanted to indulge my narcissism to the fullest. Though I will miss my vices and possibly my mind, I felt it was necessary to hedge my bets. Eternal damnation sounds like a real downer.
I’m tired of thinking for myself. Grappling with the modern zeitgeist of an ever changing world is hard work. Learning new concepts makes my brain hurt. Solving problems takes ingenuity and tenacity. I’ve seen the light. There is an easier way. I just have to shut off my brain, let my eyes glaze over, feel the drool accumulate in the corner of my mouth and give myself over to the power of prayer. Mormonism, like most religions, states that everything that happens is God’s design. Adopting this philosophy would mean I become immune to criticism and accountable for nothing. I can finally stop thinking and put myself in the church’s capable hands. I will be able to hide behind dogma and antiquated notions without ever again having to wrestle with complex scientific ideas like a heliocentric solar system. That always sounded like witch talk to me. The Christians should have burned that trouble-maker Galileo at the steak when they had the chance. From now on ‘God did it’ will serve as my all encompassing answer to every question. I wonder how I will keep my ears and mind insulated from common sense and rationale. Hopefully there’ll be a seminar. Instead of trying to fix my problems or think through a dilemma, I will simply drop to my knees and beg a celestial dictator to deal with them. Being a Mormon is going to be swell.One aspect of fundamental Mormonism I’m eagerly anticipating is the bonanza of obedient wives I’m entitled to. The FLDS split from mainstream Mormonism in the early 1900s when plural marriage was renounced and practitioners of plural marriage were excommunicated. People probably have a very negative view of the quality of Mormon woman given the recent news coverage on the raid of the FLDS compound in Texas. People who watched the endless coverage on CNN may be put off by the unusually high number of FLDS women sporting the uni-brow, but I won’t be so easily dissuaded. While I agree that most of these women fall on the wrong side of homely, I hold out hope that I can mine a few diamonds in the rough.
The best part is that the religion demands the obedience and fidelity of its women. I won’t have to go through the hassle of being an interesting and thoughtful person to earn their loyalty and respect. I won’t have to be genuinely interested in them either nor will I have to suffer the indignation of treating them as equals. I will be able to keep them in line with threats of eternal damnation and excommunication. This is going to be keen.
Where Mormonism really sets itself apart from other religions is that it has gone that extra mile to appeal to the megalomaniac in everyone. Other religions offered perks that piqued my interest. For example, certain sects of Islam promise the bizarre and excessive benefit of seventy-two virgins upon death. That is mighty tempting, but I prefer a girl who’s been around the block a few times.
Becoming a Scientologist would give me the chance to rid myself of those pesky body thetans that were planted there by intergalactic warlord Xenu. While Xenu has been a thorn in my side for some time now, the advantage of ridding me of him and his inflicted maladies doesn’t compare to the impressive afterlife benefits package offered by the Mormon religion. In addition to the eternal bliss that is a staple of most religions, I will have the rare opportunity of becoming a god myself with dominion over my own personal planet. Yes, Mormons actually believe this. That is what ultimately sold me, though I often wonder if I’ll be required to pray to myself. That wily Joseph Smith truly knew how to buy loyalty and manipulate the masses. As God of my own planet, my first order of business will be to banish all the Mormons and import some strippers. Being a god is going to be super.Mormonism isn’t for everyone. Though I relish the idea of becoming an empty-headed polygamist deity, it probably won’t appeal to some. Still, I would encourage everyone to seek out a religion or belief system that discourages independent thought, appeals to narcissism, peddles easy answers, coerces through fear, represses human sexuality, spits in the face of gender equality and holds superstition in higher esteem than reason. People should decide which combination of some or all of these appeals to them and chose their religion accordingly.
Whether it be Jesus, Moses, Zeus, Muhammad, L . Ron Hubbard, or the morning horoscope, people should have a messiah whose teachings they obey without question. Who needs a brain when insecure men in goofy hats can tell us exactly how we should live our lives. If everyone does his or her part we can forget about that bleak time known as The Age of Enlightenment and go back an ideal time where science, literature, art and women are kept under the thumb of religious dogma: where they belong.
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