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Pho Xe Lua Viet Thai by Inspector Nemo Burgers O’Salsa
Jun 14th, 2011 by maryburgers

Pho Xe Lua Viet Thai

Philadelphia, prostate PA

Papaya salad

Jackfruit milkshake

Lemongrass chicken

We came on a busy evening. We ordered separate entrées; I got sauteed chicken with lemongrass sauce on rice, and it was to be very good. The chicken was among green bell peppers in a heap, with transparent brown sauce on them. The pieces of chicken were flat and rounded, and would have made good skipping stones if they were made out of rocks. The pieces of pepper were big and burly, so that I would usually take bites that were only composed of pepper and separate bites that were only composed of chicken. There was dry rice next to them bearing a mound shape. All was presented on an oblong plate. I had long, thin utensils. Everything was perfectly formed.

The pieces of chicken had a remarkable and magical texture that seemed special and unusual for chicken. They were bright and sharp, and squishy in a way that was good and not at all bad. Maybe I should say instead that they were slimy. Briny! They were briny! Not a briny flavor, but a briny texture. And that was really good. I guess what that amounts to is that the chicken had a quality that fish frequently has. And it did seem that way. The chicken was definitely chickenlike, and if you had given it to me and asked me to identify what kind of meat it was, I probably would have answered that it was chicken, but if you had given it to me and told me that it was fish, or if I had perhaps mistakenly gathered that it was fish from some kind of misunderstanding, then I think there is a real chance that I would have believed it to be fish when I was eating it. Like once my mom made a peach cobbler, and I somehow ended up believing that I knew it was apple cobbler, and I ate it and totally bought the peaches as being soft cooked apples and thought of them as that the whole time I was eating the cobbler. Then I said, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great apple cobbler!” and my mom said, “What?!?” and I didn’t say anything because I was confused and had to rejigger myself and knew something wasn’t right. She said, “It is NOT made of apples.” I thought back and realized that of COURSE those were peaches and tasted like only peaches can possibly taste. I was mortified. “What have I done?” thought I. My mom said that my confusion had taken away all the satisfaction of having me enjoy her peach cobbler which was in truth very wonderful and yummy and that her satisfaction would not come to completion until I officially resolved the disconnect by saying, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great peach cobbler!” So I said, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great zucchini casserole!” She said that her happiness was gone forever.

The peppers were whole and good; it was nice that they were not as light and floaty and kind of soapy as ordinary bell peppers are, which might not have gone quite right with this meal. Instead they were a little dark-tasting, with a little flavor of what I could easily pass off to myself as sesame.

We also had some mango salad and could not find the mango! But there it had been, all along. The little orange shavings around the edges. There were also white shavings and other long white things that must have been little root tubes, and lettuce and almonds. It was boring until we put the sharp and runny sauce on it. Then it was interesting, with a wide-open bitterness and cold, moist spiciness, like a basement!

I got a thick-consistency jackfruit drink because I had once had a piece of jackfruit for my 13-year age ceremony, and the piece had tasted like bubblegum and eating it had felt like eating a human ear. As anticipated, the drink may very well for all I know have had the exact consistency of a thick-consistency drink made out of a human ear. The taste, however, was not like bubblegum. It was very mild, and like a melon, but with no sourness. The drink, like the piece before it, was yellow—bright and pure. Mary had something sweeter and better, just like the subsequent time we got fruity drinks together.

In closing, I do not know what things taste like, and so trying anything and imagining what it is made of and why it might taste the way it does brings me into an exciting world of pretend. But I just know that my meal was good! I can feel it in my heart! And after all, I do not need to make sense of its delicious taste. This place is great. Try eating there if you are nearby and if your mood is compatible with it. If you do, you, too, may be as happy as I!

And we had a really good time! Of course. I have had so many good times with Mary. She is a good one!

 

Guest review!: American Star Waffles by Robert Alan Bellosiburger
Jun 14th, 2011 by maryburgers

American Star

North Wales, sickness PA

 

Preface to an Ode
-Robert Alan B.

I promised to leave in all tangents, supportive and otherwise. Upon reading I hope your imagination will actively reinforce all weak clauses, negate grammatical errors and detect an inexplicable lemon-fresh scent which you will find puzzling – but pleasant.
Enjoy.

Ode to a Waffle
-R. Alan Bellosi

At the behest of an engaging creature, I have endeavored to critique a waffle. The first obstacle I encounter is the stark realization that critiques are in fact not of an object but an introspective for the observer, whereby I’ll reveal nothing about a waffle but everything about myself. It is my impression of a waffle. Ultimately, it is the reader who must decide whether I enjoyed a diner house waffle with an attractive, captivating woman or, in a deranged state: consumed a dumpster-gym-sock behind a diner in the company of a toothless crack-slag, possibly wielding a penis. Diners are horribly patriotic places. They are encrusted in homeland colors with mascot depictions of anthropomorphic eagles drinking whiskey and driving pick-up trucks. It is in this setting that I encounter a Belgian Waffle.

The waffle batter is a composite of bleached flour, mammal lactation, poultry ovulation and baking soda, with trace amounts of insects and other unappetizing anomalies of processing. This batter is then poured over a rotund bi-fold grill with cubic indentations where it is oxidized. The cubic indentations create exquisite little pockets for holding maple flavored corn syrup and whipped butter. On the side there are hermetically sealed packets of maple-masquerade syrup, and
hermetically sealed and pasteurized packets of synthetic fruit flavored mush derived from used condoms and tar, presumably.  These are entirely unnecessary however, as the waffle comes with a choice of real fruit, forged in the soil of the earth.

I chose banana (or in Espanola: “banana”) and my lovely dining companion chose blueberry. The banana reserves had been poorly inventoried and had been depleted; despondently, I digressed into a strawberry consolation. The Waffles arrived; like consoling-Visine for waffle-longing eyes they were.  Gorgeous dollops of Whipped cream, confectioned sugar –biutiful powder strewn about like superfluous stripper-bait cocaine at a slick-ass executive soiree… and the taste?  It’s a waffle covered in syrup, whipped butter, whipped cream and confection sugar. How the fuck you think it tasted? It was like a mouth full of hot sex.

I consumed ¾ or 75% of my waffle serving, most academic grading standards would grant me a solid “C” for this achievement; I however received and an “F” for my efforts. I sympathize with this jeering
because it is a devastating waste when one reflects on the many-many hands it takes for a fully prepared waffle to get to one’s plate. The briefest of summaries involves a lengthy and very involved
relationship with live stock, taxes, human resource departments, farming, immigration, taxes, fuel, oil, war, stock exchange, prostitutes, scumbag politicians, more taxes, unions, product packaging, graphic designers, a manager to do coke in the office, more prostitutes, employing diner staff including servers and cooks, another manager to do coke in the office, drug cartels, coke mules,
more taxes, stocking deliveries, prep work, electricity and so on. It is an abundantly elaborate orchestration utilizing the entire world economy just so some skinny bastard can eat ¾ of a waffle.
This was a very memorable waffle. The experience left me in a euphoric state of awe and on the cusp of insulin shock; all plans of murdering my recently acquainted companion had been dissolved.

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