Saturday, December 7, 2013
Dear friends, family, and Food and Pants Readers -
When you know a given day will be your last on Earth, things seem very simple. Your life seems neither big nor small, but rather just so. It seems like something that has lasted for a while and will soon be gone, but you see that Life, with a capital "L," will continue, at least for some time, and I expect, in one way or another, for all eternity. In other words, "you" shall pop out of existence, and you know others will also pop out of existence, and the entire universe will pop out of existence, but other universes will spring forth and so will others, and then pop out, and so on, forever and always.
So, dear reader, at this point you may be wondering why I know today is my last day and why I am having these meditations? Or perhaps the more germane question is why I have decided to make it a day which I know will be my last?
Pumpkin Pie Oh My, the fabled Shake Shack treat, offered during one short period a year in November, in which a slice of pumpkin pie is smashed into Shake Shack's creamy custard, is a treat no self-respecting lover of creams can miss. But miss it I did. And for no other reason than I was lazy and chose not to make myself aware of its presence.
I've always felt to be true to one's self is the only thing that makes life matter, and I violated that sacred principle. I now feel the only way to regain my sacred cream integrity is to sacrifice myself, to make a grand statement which testifies to the importance of creams generally, and Shake Shack Pumpkin Pie Oh My specifically.
I shall now fill myself with canned pumpkin puree and whipped cream, and in so doing will bring balance to the force. I feel no sadness; only peace.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
At 8:56pm eastern standard time, my friend started rubbing his right leg in agitation. I noticed, and as I moved to comfort him, an explosive sound was heard and my friend jerked to the right.
"My god, they're going to knock into us all!" he cried.
Pandemonium ensued, and it all happened so fast that not even I, sitting right next to my friend, really had a sense of what happened. Evidence was collected, witnesses were questioned, a commission was formed, a theory was proposed.
The official version of events, as it were, stated a lone walker, a waiter, strode past the right side of my friend, brushing his right leg, and then, out of embarrassment, abruptly turned and walked away, hitting my friend in the right shoulder area. How this came to be the official version is a case of human folly and corruption without parallel. The following questions must be asked:
- Why did many witnesses claim they saw a toddler run past the scene, a toddler who finds no presence in the official version?
- Why did my friend jerk to his right if he were being hit on his right side; in other words, why would he jerk in the direction of the offending blow; in other words, isn't it natural to jerk away from such offending blows rather than towards?
- Why did a waiter known for his ability to weave-and-bob, a waiter who had received top marks for his agile abilities and graciousness, make not one, but two contacts with a client, and then fail to amend the situation?
- Why can we not question the accused waiter more? Oh, that's right - because he mysteriously died two days later at the hands of a deranged chimpanzee named Walter.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Papa. I like it when you call me big papa.
It was a mild November evening, and chicken fingers were what I wanted. Across the street from my work is an establishment called Big Papa's, known for its fine dining. I was working late and fine dining was exactly what I needed, so I headed to this so-called Big Papa's for some chicken fingers.
Upon arrival I was greeted by a boisterous assortment of pre and post-pubescents, who were having a lively discussion on the recent landmark change in Senate parliamentary procedure. There's nothing like a heated yet gentlemanly debate on parliamentary procedure, and I was delighted by the atmosphere. I placed my order, a five piece chicken tender with fries. Ginger ale would be the beverage I'd be consuming.
I ran to the nearest ATM and returned, expecting my platter to be ready, but ready it was not. I waited 5 minutes and still nothing. A man who didn't seem to speak much English assured me they were working on my order. More time elapsed. My dear friend, would you believe me if I said it took 25 minutes to get my chicken tenders? Well, it's true, and I wasn't exactly pleased, but I decided to take this monumental wait in good stride and said "sayonara you bastards!" in a joking fashion as I left. Everyone thought it was very funny and laughed heartily.
When I returned to my desk and opened up my bag, I was delighted to see just the cutest little box you've ever seen, white and decorated with a red chicken and the absolutely inviting phrase "enjoy this chicken!" Well, let's just say any bitter feelings concerning the long wait were instantly vaporized. I almost didn't want to open the box it was so cute, but my hunger and love of chicken fingers won out, and the box was opened.
What greeted me were solid specimens, but nothing extraordinary or remarkable in terms of appearance. The tenders were golden brown and crescent shaped, and the fries were straight and true. There was a most delicate and homemade mustard sauce. Oh, yes, without even tasting the sauce, it was quite apparent Big Papa's took great care and paid attention to the slightest detail!
The fingers, the tenders, were a model of a how a fast food - I mean fine dining - chicken tender should be. The fries were a British-style chip. The mustard sauce was otherworldly and very complex. I moaned in great pleasure as I wolfed down my tenders and fries. The crisp ginger ale was a perfect refresher.
As I sat and reflected, I realized Big Papa's took its tenders and fries seriously, and I knew the wait had been worth it.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Mitch is my name. Grew up on the coast of Wales in Mercanburry. Father was a great dairy farmer, who raised herds of cows and goats for his fine cheddars. The cheddars were rich and nutty, complex and pungent, the way that all fine cheddars should be. Now I've come to America for reasons I will not go into here; let's just say I did what I had to do. But now I miss the cheddars of my youth, the cheddars of my fathers, the cheddars of the coast. A yellow, domestic cheddar (when the United States is the domesticity) simply will not do. A white, coastal cheddar is what you need. And therefore I have decided to raise my own herds off the coast of Brooklyn, to make a cheddar worthy of my name. Mitch.