Dear Adam R:
I’ll tell you what I want to do.
No. I’ll tell you what I DON’T want to do. I DON’T want to sit here at the bar and listen to this bespectacled monstrosity of a broken man garble on and on about his dead wife and his niece that talks like an auctioneer. This man has two beers, a well whiskey neat, a three piece suit and a mouth devoid of teeth. I mean it. He opens his mouth, he’s got four teeth. I can’t make this shit up. He has been talking since I sat down and all I want to do is digest the forty three pounds of food I just ate. I want to digest it in silence and this man doesn’t want to let me.
I am going to full-out ignore Toofless at this point to tell you about the meal I just had. I went to Acme Food and Beverage, a place where I cannot afford to even read the menu, but every item on said menu is worth every penny spent. So when five different employees told me on five different occasions to go get the Pork Chop Meal, I knew it had to be good. Petey said the Pork Chop Meal is so huge that he and his girlfriend split it and they still couldn’t finish it. I took this as a challenge.
My first socially awkward move was to trip in the gravel parking lot. I was wearing my Octopus HaHa shoes. I haven’t talked about these yet. I have so many pairs of HaHas that every time I mention them on here on Myspace, I’m talking about a different pair from my closet. Here is a picture from the website.
See how the top makes into an octopus? I drew smiles and eyes on mines.
Anyway, they’re hard to walk in when you’re as graceful as me. So I got two steps out of the car and tripped like a bitch. Some dirty dreadlocked girl was laughing at me.
I get inside and request Justin’s section to prove to him that I actually ate a Pork Chop Meal. My second mistake of the night? I sat down and said, “Kentucky Tea, Pork Chop Meal, and a plate of bread.” And then I was all, “Oh, yeah. Tell me about the specials.” He rattled them off in a seemingly humiliated tone. Maybe he thought I was mocking and patronizing him since we both knew I wasn’t interested in the specials. Really I wanted to hear about the specials anyway because I was so fucking hungry I just wanted to hear the words, “Striped Sea Bass in Beurre Blanc” over and over again.
So my Pork Chop Meal arrives, and it looks like this:
I almost dropped dead from love. I grabbed my knife and tore into. . .a bone. Shit. Now I was going to have to sit in the fancy restaurant and teach myself how to cut a pork chop off of a bone without catapulting a collard green to the next table. I figured out how to do this, and the trick is. . .cut very, very slowly.
I started eating it, and man was it good. I mean good. The chop was atop a pile of mashed sweet potatoes. There was some weird corn/puke thingie on top of the chop, and it was so good that I didn’t even care that I couldn’t identify it. This chop was so high-grade that they cooked it medium-rare and it was still safe to eat.
But then, as happens with all pork chops, I found it. The huge chunk of fat that I just could not bring myself to chew. I would have vomited from the texture. So I sort of just held it in my mouth and panicked. But I don’t want the fat touching the inside of my mouth, because I don’t want to feel it even, so I’m doing that thing like when something in your mouth is too hot and you sort of create a weird abyss and float the food around till it cools off and your mouth looks like it’s full of barf.
I try several different methods of removal, and none of them work. I don’t want to spit it in the expensive linen napkin in my lap, because all I need is for Justin to clear my table and find that little treasure as it drops out and rolls to the floor. I try to stick my fork in my mouth and extract the fat ball, and then I look up and Justin and two other waiters and four patrons are looking at me funny. Maybe I’m being paranoid. I can’t put a fork in my mouth and take out a glob of food, so I abandon this technique. Then I try to chew it real fast-like to get it over with, and it’s so horrifying that I actually get dizzy. So I ended up getting up from the table and staggering to the bathroom, my head spinning, and I spit it out in the trash can. I walk back to the table and now people are really staring. Whatever. I finish the rest of my meal in peace and silence, and Justin comes to check on me. I’m almost finished with everything, and I realize that I have meticulously cut off every bit of fat, even the kind you’re supposed to eat, and lined each piece up around the rim of the plate. It looks ridiculous, and I am mortified. I look so picky and juvenile that I scrape it all back onto the plate and hide it under the bone. Which makes me mature.
I finished the entire meal and because of this, I get congratulated by three of the waitstaff. I’m not satisfied, though. I have to show off and order strawberry shortcake and I wolfed it down out of principle. I stopped halfway through, though, to take a pic for you guys.
So double the size of that and you’ve got the full dessert. Justin comes back around and looks at me, shakes my hand, and says, “Welcome to the club of People-Who-Eat-Like-Hogs-And-Never-Stop-Eating-Like-Hogs.” Or something to that effect.
Thanks, buddy. Glad to be here.
Full of food,