Oh watch - my son – the dragons’ fly,
Watch their silhouettes on high.
Watch their tails, their scales, their wings;
Remember all these different things.
Watch now: they are soaring higher,
Watch their parting puffs of fire.
And as you watch, give one small tear,
For this has been their final year.
Before our fathers reached these shores,
Retreating from their ancient wars,
The dynasties of dragons old
Sat here upon their treasured gold.
Here they lay in mountain caves,
Caverns delved by dwarfish slaves,
Here they ruled with splendid peace,
But this – alas – was soon to cease.
Our ancestors cannot be blamed
For marching in where dragons reigned,
They had been fighting far too long
Against the hordes that were too strong.
Their choice was die like fools or run
And so ‘twas here new homes begun;
New homes set up beside this sea,
New homes - they hoped - where peace could be.
These beasts that slept through winter’s days
Knew nothing of our father’s ways
Until they rose for spring’s first flight
And many huts then met their sight.
And then to men the Winged War came,
As from their peaks they dived in flame;
But these same men fought back with zeal
And showed the worms the demon steel.
They’d never met the metal foe,
But of its pain they soon did know.
It let their blood in many fights
And bought dark death with savage bites.
Their anguished cries cut through the air
And sorrow filled the dragon’s lair.
At last they’d met their match in might,
A match that brought their end in sight.
You know the heroes of those days,
Of Kraust’s and Thed’s inspiring ways,
Of battles, leaders, deeds and dates,
Determining the dragons’ fates.
But give – I ask – a little thought
For those ‘gainst which these heroes fought,
Like us they had a right to life,
But to their hearts we plunged the knife.
Through centuries our victory came
And much of it we won in shame;
We smashed their eggs and stabbed the ill,
Used every way to wound or kill.
Until last winter while they slept
Our ‘heroes’ to their caverns crept,
And there the entrance they did block,
Entombing dragons in the rock.
Now victory is here at last,
Now dragon dynasties are past,
The end of three dark hundred years
Filled full with fight and fears and tears;
But ‘fore you dance and sing with joy
I pray you pray my little boy
That those who with the wind do flee
Will find their peace across the sea.
while i dont truly live alone anymore..... You do learn many things when you first live on your own, here is an account of the things i have learned so far:
1. Food does not expire, it merely changes consistencies.
2. Spaghetti loses some cache but tastes just the same when eaten out of 3 mugs instead of a bowl.
3. Forgetting to drain a can of corn before dumping it into a hot skillet will not only set off the smoke detector but will also shoot hot corn at you and all around the kitchen, only to be found later. If you choose to attempt this I highly recommend wearing a shirt as you do so, hot corn will sting badly.
4. It is time to vacuum when you hear crunching as you walk.
5. While not as glamorous, trying to kill flies using a Nerf gun with your shirt wrapped around your head can make you feel a lot like Rambo, even if you never kill a single one.
6. Many people believe that it is easier to wait for the rain to come instead of washing their car. For a man, a similar approach can be taken towards cleaning your toilet.
7. An interesting physiological change occurs when it is 2:00 in the morning and no one is there to talk some sense into you, suddenly a perfectly balanced fishing rod, made from ballistic nylon, with an eye gauge protector, for only 4 small payments of $39.95 seems very reasonable.
8. Diet 7up is an awful thing, it tastes like the carbonated, decaffeinated urine of a well hydrated cat. If you are wondering how i am so familiar with the taste of cat pee then i should let you know that there was a drink released not long ago that I believe was super caffeinated cat urine, remember surge?
9. Rather than having to get up to take my trash to the garbage can, I find it much more efficient to leave the trash where it is and bring the can to the trash right before it is time to take out the garbage.
10. Just because you are alone does not make it ok to watch super nanny. You feel guilty and dirty the whole time.
I like to cook, as long as cooking means putting something in the microwave. Chances are if a product involves more steps than ripping off a wrapping and putting in near a heat source, I can’t do it. Sometimes I forget this though. Every once in awhile I extend myself beyond my culinary boundaries.
One day I was doing my grocery shopping and was wandering through the aisles picking up whatever caught my eye. That’s how I buy food, don’t judge me! While in the bakery aisle I noticed a box of pancake batter. I had not had pancakes in a long while, and the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of having them that day. Granted, it was already 1:00 in the afternoon and having pancakes for dinner is a little too crazy for most folks. Luckily Im young, if the Birthgiver's mother ever found out I was having dessert for supper she would be furious.
Later in the frozen foods aisle, I saw a pack of frozen raspberries. On the package in big curvy black letters it said, “Great for cooking!” I put two and two together and decided raspberries would go great with my cooked pancakes.
Somewhat later in the evening, I began to make my pancakes. On the box it clearly stated that adding water to the mix was the only thing necessary to prepare the batter. I pondered this for a moment and then decided that just adding water to the mix was boring. So, I put in a couple of eggs and replaced the water with milk…and got rid of a little bit of butter I had leftover.
I did not have a skillet so I had to use a frying pan. My apartment’s stove was notorious for its uneven cooking, but I braved the conditions just the same. I put some batter in the pan and I dropped in raspberries one by one. I added about ten, but it just didn’t seem like enough. To speed the process, I decided to pour from the bag. Instead of some raspberries, a bunch of raspberry juice came out. I said to myself, “Whatever, more raspberriness.”
Using a spatula, I mixed the raspberry juice in evenly, but that turned the batter purple. I now had purple raspberry pancakes. This did not concern me because I happen to find the color purple quite appetizing. After the pancake cooked on one side, I attempted to flip it. However, the pancake was too large to flip. I concluded that the best course of action was simply to use a smaller pan. This way the pancakes would be more manageable and probably more delicious.
It took me several minutes to locate my smaller pan. I tend to lose most of my cooking utensils if they are not vital to the operation of the microwave. Meanwhile, the pancake became overcooked and caked to my large pan. Caked isn’t a very good word, more like welded. I ended up chopping up the pancake into small chunks to get it out of the large pan. I wasn’t about to throw it away, I was quite sure the situation could be salvaged. Besides, I paid a hefty sum for those empty calories.
In the small pan the pancake was exactly the right size. However, the actual cooking was taking much too long, so I turned up my stove a notch. Apparently the 3 dial on the cooker means, “Smell funny, and don’t actually cook anything.” and the 2 means, “Burn the shit out of my pancakes.” Special note: pancake smoke is more acrid than French fry smoke, but far less acrid than turkey smoke. Just a little FYI there.
I didn’t want to set off the fire alarm so instead of turning off the stove I took the battery out of my fire alarm. I must have ripped a wire out in the process, because the fire alarm has never worked again. I’m still sitting here so my recommendation to everyone is to not put another dime in the pocket of Big Alarm. After both sides of the pancake were burnt I put them on a plate to eat.
The pancakes ended up not being cooked all of the way through. I was basically back to where I started: Relying on a microwave. The only setting I really know how to use was the ‘Popcorn in a Bag’ setting, so I put my pancakes in the microwave and pressed that button. The end product ended up looking a lot like purple burnt hamburger meat with thousands of raspberry seeds spread over the surface. I ate it too, I really hate wasting money.
I’m the type of guy that likes to have things planned out, not just for how I expect things to go, but for every possible contingency. Regardless of how a situation enfolds, I will always be prepared. That’s why I’ve already fully planned out my wedding.
The idea for this really started after I attended the bachelor party of a good friend. It was nothing fancy; we just went out to a local bar to quietly have a few beers. I’m not a huge fan of beer and tend to go for the hard liquor. As Mohandas Ghandi famously stated, “Don’t drink a lot of Jaeger. It will pretty much mess you up.” At least I think it was him, I could be mistaken.
As I was driven home, my friends started to ask me questions every so often to confirm my consciousness. Seeing as how they were going to a wedding the next day they appropriately asked, “Fool, what do you want your wedding to be like?” I gave a muffled groan, raised to a sitting position in the back of the vehicle, clearly stated “Ninjas,” and then passed out.
My wedding shall proceed as follows: The wedding will take place in a church that has a large glass window in the ceiling near the altar. I will be wearing a tuxedo with tails covered by a frilled leather jacket. A gold rimmed monocle will complete the ensemble. I will not be wearing a top hat, that’s just tacky.
The wedding will begin as planned, but fifteen to twenty minutes will pass with me waiting at the altar with not sign of the groom. As whispers among the wedding guests transforms into unmasked chatter, the sound of a helicopter will grow near. The window above will unexpectedly shatter and in will repel my soon-to-be in a commando outfit. he will unzip the uniform and reveal his tux as well as a bouquet. “Sorry honey, my hair appointment ran late,” he will say accompanied by a wink. The ceremony will then begin properly as the priest suddenly appears in a puff of purple smoke.
In the back of the wedding hall will sit a three tiered wedding cake. Most often, this tradition is reserved for the reception, but sometimes I like to be slightly unconventional. Six ceramic pillars will hold up each consecutive level of the delicious baked good. Everyone will assume these pillars are merely an aesthetic choice. They will be wrong.
Model rocket engines will be housed inside each pillar. Each layer of the pastry will be on a timer to coincide with a significant happening of the wedding, for example the completion of the priest’s sermon. With simultaneous ignition of the six engines, each level will blast off accordingly, reaching heights of well over twenty feet…or however high the ceiling is. If financial holdings permit, there will be parachute recovery. Guests are welcome to whatever bits of frosting they can scavenge, as long as they are quiet about it. It’s a wedding, for god-sakes!
This cake situation may seem a little elaborate, but I just want people to be clear on where we are in the schedule. This whole thing may run a little long, and I’m not even Catholic.
As the pastor is about to conclude the wedding with the vows, three guests will leap from their seats and simultaneously shout, “I object!” They then reveal that they are actually ninjas…the evil kind! Of course, these ninjas will be highly paid actors, but no one including my future spouse will know this.
I will grab a nearby brass candle holder, do a back flip off the wall, and engage in battle with the ninjas. This is also where more pyrotechnics come into play. Through the carefully choreographed fifteen minute battle, you will learn through deftly divulged plot points that each ninja is actually an ex-boyfriend of the groom. The unique way in which my fiancée had dumped them will determine their individual combat styles.
Since my guy is radiant with quality and class, the ninjas will be especially vicious when it comes to winning his honor. The audience will learn that the ninjas were unable to deal will the emotional pain of rejection, and had sadly turned to violence and vengeance. Special attention will be paid to enumerate their transgressions against my companion to provide proper justification for the severe beating they are receiving.
If for some reason the groom has had fewer than three previous boyfriends, then we will attribute the ninja’s appearance and past history to the groom’s previously unknown retrograde amnesia. Looking at the big picture, this segment of the wedding will resemble a soap opera episode with significantly more explosions.
After the last ninja has fallen I will rejoin my husband near the altar, look him in the eyes deeply and proclaim, “I do.” As we walk from the wedding hall a large platform will lower from the broken window carrying the band ZZ Top. As they play “Gimme All Your Lovin” I will take off my leather jacket and put it around my newly gotten hubby.
Waiting for us in the parking lot will be a dune buggy, including roll cage. Many would question why exactly I would choose a dune buggy. To this I would retort, “Have you ever driven a car?” The answer would most likely be yes. My second question would be, “Have you ever driven a dune buggy?” Our stylish transportation would be fitted with a sign reading, “Just married, paid for in ninja blood.” That outta get some honks!
The reception will be held shortly after. The centerpieces on all of the tables will be blue lightsabers if the guests are people I like and red lightsabers if they are from the grooms’s family. There also will be one of two types of masks distributed at each person’s seat. These party favors will be printed on the highest quality paper. The masks will be detailed replicas of myself and groom’s faces. Each mask will have the eyes and mouth cut out for practicality purposes. The wearing of these masks is to be considered mandatory fun.
It is my feelings that there should be no dancing of any kind at my wedding. It’s not something I really have ever cared for. No, that’s a lie. It’s more like something I can’t remember not hating. However, I realize that I am now in a partnership. If my husband has a strong preference to do so, I am prepared to make compromise and agree to at least a single dance.
The lights will go dark, “our” song will start to play, and we will proceed to the dance floor with my him leading me. At this time a trapdoor in the floor will open and I will stealthily slide into it. A man of roughly equal height and stature will replace me for the next five minutes. With any luck my husband will be as unobservant as I am.
As the night progresses and the time for guest departure draws near, I will raise a crystal goblet and give a romantic toast to my him. I will take special care to verbalize my reasoning for entering into this relationship, and promise to make it an exciting, fulfilling, and ninja-free experience. After the toast is concluded, he will produce a jet pack from under the table, give me a kiss, and fly through the ceiling (hopefully avoiding injury). I will sit down calmly and continue my dinner as if nothing had happened. After some time I will quietly look inwards on myself, realizing that it has indeed been a very special day.
The first man to agree to all of this will be my soul mate.
One of the least enjoyable things in life is when I am having a completely normal conversation with someone which steers naturally into what kind of books or movies we both like, and ends with a 3 hour discussion about this persons insane fan fiction.
Sure I like to come home from the Transformers movie and imagine how cool it would be to have a robot car that I never had to fill with gas for the trade off of mild radiation poisoning. But to write a 30 page story about how BumbleBee is in love with me and is really a girl robot and how he transforms into the best lover you've ever had, well... that's literally insane...
No seriously, I looked it up
Insane: Traditionally, insanity, craziness or madness is the behavior whereby a person flouts societal norms and may become a danger to themselves and others.
You bypassed social norms by thinking it was ok to tell me about your sexual fantasy involving a robot car, and endangered yourself by not realizing that I might beat the crap out of you!
Now I have always considered myself nerdy beyond all reason. I enjoy D&D themed books, play videogames, am a semi-accountant, write a blog, and have seen every episode of the "newer" Star Treks. I however draw the line at having sexual fantasies, or thinking that works of fiction could be real. Normally I am generally against the death penalty but if I have to sit through one more discussion about How Gandalf could in fact be your grandfather because you were adopted and you have strange magical powers I might just have to inject you myself.
I'll give you this you do have the power to make me feel normal weirdo. I need to converse with more sane people.
They want revenge. Or national treasury bling. Or weapons. They want to destroy the planet with assorted lasers. Or robots. Or giant sharks. Or giant robot sharks with lasers.
Some of them want a big-ass promotion.
But it occurred to me that very few movie villains, if any, ever want what so many highly obsessive folks teetering on the precipice of sanity seem to want...
An excess of cats.
So I was thinking, just once, I would love to see an action picture where the bad guy gets on the video comm-- which they all seem to have--
(Tech companies must make big bucks setting up satellite communication systems for Evil Overlords)
He picks up his pre-prepared evil guy speech--
(Because so often they toil for decades to achieve revenge and world domination, yet don't seem to have their evil monologues memorized. You'd think they'd be rehearsing in front of the mirror along with brushing their teeth every morning.)
-- And he tells our heroes something like this:
"This is Professor Heinous. My giant robot laser sharks are everywhere, and as you can see, I have you, citizens of Earth, right where I want you. So now that I have your complete and undivided attention, I will issue my demands..."
"By 12 midnight tomorrow, I want the major leaders of Earth to assemble and present me with the world's entire supply of...."
—You can hear a bead of sweat roll—
"...Persians!"
Here the leaders of the major nations, on each of their individual monitor screens, exchange glances with their advisors. Eyebrows are raised. The Secretary of Defense gives a meaningful look to the President and twirls a finger around one ear symbolically.
"Um," the President of the United States turns calmly to the monitor. "I believe they're called 'Iranians' nowadays."
"Not, people, you dimwit!" shouts Professor Heinous. "What am I going to do with people? I hate people. People make me sick. Persians! Persians!"
"Oh!" interjects the British Prime Minister. "Well, that can certainly be arranged. What color scheme are you going for?"
"Color sch--" A vein throbs in Professor Heinous' neck as he sputters. "Are you insulting me with talk of textiles?! This is a concrete stronghold cut into an isolated volcanic island. Do I look like I need rugs here?"
"Well, actually," says the Prime Minister, nodding hesitantly, "I wouldn't recommend the world's supply, but my wife indicates just a few would really tie the—"
"Persians!" shouts Professor Heinous. "Cats. Fluffy ones. That are soft and furry and go by names like Tiddles and Mister Whiskerton, and eat Fancy Feast out of crystal goblets. Persians, you fools! That I can talk to and pet and watch frolic after a feather on a stick. And which will never, ever leave me, largely because I will lock them in the Evil Compound and plus this is an island and they can't swim."
"Ah," said the Prime Minister of Japan, "'kay. Sure."
"And now for my second demand," says Professor Heinous. "I also expect to receive.... the world's supply of tinfoil, and all copies of the Sacramento Bee newspaper dating from 1982, February, back to 1960, July. I'm missing those copies for my collection and now that I rule the world, I'm thinking the time is right to really flesh it out."
The camera pans and we see that in most of the Evil Conference Room, there are stacks and stacks of hoarded yellow newspapers, piled high to the ceiling, many of them still in their original plastic wrappers.
"And don't send any of those Clean House people here when you drop them off. I hate that Niecy woman. She's obnoxious. I guarantee you, she will be the first to die."
So-- tell me, folks: what would you like to see a movie villain do that hasn't been done yet?
I was reading the news tonight about some airplane in Minnesota (or some state where people molest hay bales), where passengers were stuck on this plane on the tarmac for something like 8 hours and blah blah eating only pretzels, and mwah mwah.
To be honest, I wasn’t really reading the article, I was skimming it looking for some sort of reference to midget stewardesses, as my hobbies dictate I do. (You should see the guys at the Midget-Hunting Club local branch #47 when I tell them of my new finds. Totally worth all the work, being all respected by my peers n’ stuff.)
What caught my eyes were that this ‘Mesaba’ airline company (some sort of Jar-Jar Binks reference, I suppose?) or whatever the hell it’s called is a wholly owned subsidiary of Northwest Airlines, which in turn is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Delta Airlines.
I got thinking for a second, cause that’s usually all I’m capable of. “Self? What the hell would happen if Mesaba went and bought Delta Airlines?”
I just blew your fucking minds, didn’t I. No, I thought not because you’re only half fucking paying attention yourselves.
Mesaba would own Delta which would own Northwest which would own Mesaba which would own Delta which would own Northwest which would own Mesaba.
People would say, “Wait, who owns Delta?” And I’d have to answer the above line infinitely until the universe collapsed into some sort of singularity and we’d all die except for Stephen Hawking, who figured out some sort of freaky physics-avoiding umbilical cord and just floats outside the universal singularity in his tricked-out $475.00 (or more) wheelchair taunting the collapsed universe with his robotic voice:
“Hah Hah You People Should Have Spent More Time In Science Class And Less Time in Phys-Ed With Your Muscles And All That Worthless Shit”. [Imagine that being said in his Windows 95 voice.]
So, we can take from this whole rant that 1) I’m a fucking gimp-brain and 2) see 1)
Lately I’ve been addicted to Gordon Ramsay TV shows. I guess it boils (har har, get the pun?) down to me liking swearing a whole lot, or maybe I enjoy scabby faces? I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter.
Gordon Ramsay shows include:
Hell’s Kitchen: Gordon Ramsay stars as a hypertension-riddled version of himself who screams at wannabe chefs for an hour.
If you’ve ever wondered how mad someone can be at overcooked scallops, this is the show for you to watch. Have you ever fucked up when cooking spaghetti? Holy fuck, it’s time for you to die, according to Chef Ramsay.
This is not a show you watch if you’d like to learn how to cook. This is a show you watch if you want to learn how to insult fat people, women, men, French people, cows, and Texans. But if you get off on people being ridiculed like I do except when the object of ridicule is me, then this is the show for you.
Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares: Gordon Ramsay travels from British town to British town, insulting restaurateurs who suck at pretty much everything. It’s more or less the traveling circus, except without clowns, elephants, tents, and everything that makes a circus a circus unless the circus only featured Gordon Ramsay saying “Holy fucking hell” for 30 out of a possible 40 minutes of air time.
The premise is this: Gordon Ramsay swoops into a restaurant, swears a whole lot, leaves for a month, then comes back and sees how much his swearing has improved the restaurant’s business. (It usually proves somewhat successful.)
Gordon Ramsay Kicks An Effigy of Mother Theresa In The Snatch Repeatedly: This show, which is perhaps less famous than the previous two shows, features Gordon Ramsay kicking a stuffed doll of Mother Theresa in the vaginal region for a half hour. No dialogue, no plot, just the occasional grunt and foul word, and a whole lotta foot-flailing. Due to limited syndication, this show is perhaps only aired in my brain.
“Why Mother Theresa?” you might ask. The answer from Gordon Ramsay is, “Fuck you, pig.”
Unlike other children in my Ultimate Fighting weight division, I never grew up on the teat of the Cheez Whiz.
Other kids would frequently bring their yellow-smeared vegetable sticks, sandwiches, and crackers for lunch and give me desperate looks when it came to trading time. “Sorry old chaps, this kid would be happier with his own lunch, thankyouverymuch!” (Yeah, I said it just like that because I wanted to be an elderly British man, okay? It was a phase I was going through. Wasn’t long after that I wanted to become an old Chinese lady too, that’s how I developed my “wise but disapproving ” face that I use whenever someone someone wants to do something stupid like go golfing in the middle of the night or put sticky-notes featuring a sketch of a penis on the back of our boss or something.)
Even at a young age, I was able to discern between what I should be sticking down my throat and what was clearly inedible and should be given some sort of government classification like, “Warning: Nutritional value for this product on par with eating radioactive slug excrement”.
Don’t get me wrong, the lady that birthed me would occasionally purchase a bottle of the vile orange vomit to eat herself, but even then it generally eventually wound its way to the back of the fridge -unopened, expire, grow mold, and try to crawl out of the fridge on its own and kill us while we slept and dreamed of hunting tarantula men with a bow. So it’s not like in my life I’ve never tried Cheez Whiz as if I were some sort of elite and repulsive Food Network critic, but Jesus Christ, what the fuck IS that shit?
Seriously, what is it? I just looked at the Wikipedia entry for Cheez Whiz and was only left more repulsed. Its least-horrific ingredient appears to be ‘processed cheese’, which I’m not sure if you knew or not, was created by the Germans in 1941 to poison the French into submission, which was a sure-bet given the French’s propensity to consume stupid shit like snails and frog legs. Okay, I lied about this part.
A ‘processed spread’ containing ‘processed cheese’ is like some sort of double evil entity worthy of being exploded on a remote island in the pacific to see what sort of toxic effects it has on an ecosystem. I mean hell, to start with, processed cheese itself is an abomination of epic proportion – let us not forget its origins of being the random shit they sweep up at a cheese factory when it’s not visibly contaminated with rat shit (look it up). Then they mix it with more Xanthan gum, candle wax, pig vomit, and orange food coloring, repackage it into bottles that look like they should be holding embryos at a research facility, then it ends up in your fridge. No wonder they can’t even spell it ‘Cheese Whiz’, they’ve probably been forced at some point by government to change the name in order to not mislead people into thinking they’re getting some sort of nutritional value.
Probably the most disgusting thing since Elvis Presley or edible underwear.
—
Speaking of processed cheese, America, you and I really need to sit down and have a talk about this association you have with ‘American cheese’. See, most nations are associated with shit they’re proud of, like “French Wine”, we have “Canadian Bacon”, “Polish Sausage”, “Mexican Tequila”, or “Australian Koala Toes”. (I made the last one up, but I’d expect them to be tasty with the right sauce.)
YOU though, awesome America, have unfortunately been associated with the dredges of milk byproducts, ‘American cheese’. ‘American cheese’ was a product of the US government’s Commodity Credit Corporation in 1982, as a way of simultaneously dealing with milk overstock and pacifying welfare folks with something they could use to slap on their burgers and not feel so welfare-y.
Now it’s been twisted into some sort of desirable topping on hamburgers or tacos, hell, even foo-foo kitchens keep blocks of this shit on their shelf somewhere since it never goes bad and advertise it on their fancy-pants menus – “Oh look, how quaint, Reginald, American Cheese on our foie gras! Let us!”
There are far more awesome things that could be associated with the word ‘America’, like chicken-fried steaks. Or cornbread. Or cheesecake. Or hell, liver is even better. Please make it so that when I travel to some sort of exotic international destination like Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and choose to have a Whopper, it comes with something that remotely resembles cheese instead of the tasteless processed crap that has become known as “American cheese”. It’s not worthy of the title, considering your awesome-but-not-quite-as-awesome-as-Norway (according to recent polls conducted in my memory) nation.
Thanks America, I’m glad we could have this little chat. Can we speak later about your aversion to free healthcare? It’s the other retarded thing with your sexy country that we need to talk about, then you can brag all you want again. Shhh though, I’m liable to be shot by some sort of medicare operative for telling you things you’re not supposed to know. Shhh.
Due to the large amount of overtime im working, the 2 head bosses at my work decided to take me to a smart new edmonton restaurant for dinner. I eagerly scanned the menu, only to recoil in horror and confusion. The menu was all in foreign! There were some words I understood, like fried and with, but the dish descriptions were alien to me. The waiter sneered as I pretended to study the menu. He knew I had no clue, the bastard. Panicking, I picked the cheapest dish and hoped it didn’t have tentacles.
If you are intending to visit a fancy restaurant this weekend, here’s a few translations you need to know. Unless you like dining dangerously.
Starters are not called Starters any more. It’s First Dish, Amuse-Bouche or whatever the pretentious phrase is this week.
Soup is no longer soup, it’s bisque. It isn’t cream of mushroom, it’s organic shiitake bisque with crème fraiche emulsion . If you are unfamiliar with those ingredients, who knows what could arrive on your plate? A shit biscuit covered in cream paint?
How about panko encrusted scallops with tamarind drizzle ? Anything with a panko encrustation should be examined by a doctor. I don’t know what a tamarind is, or that it causes drizzle (or indeed any sort of damp weather).
The next danger dish is carpaccio. The description sounds innocent enough - warmed winter salad with organic carpaccio . Carpaccio must be like some kind of goats’ cheese, right? No.
Carpaccio is RAW MEAT. Just-dead. No flame has touched its bloody mass.
You end up with raw beef and cooked salad. The chef must have some serious issues.
Perhaps stick with the bread rolls for now.
Now for the main course, sorry, Dish Principal, Fourth Course or whatever the hell we’re up to by now. Attempting to impress your fellow diners, you order boneless grain-fed Cornish Rock with a compliment of seared potato shards and a blemish of spiced Peruvian tomato reduction . Your friends are not impressed when waiter serves you chicken and chips with a dollop of ketchup.
Pan-seared halibut with... green things! Eww.Those dastardly chefs can’t even leave simple Italian food alone. For years I avoided pizza topped with pomodoro, assuming it was some kind of chewy squid. Pomodoro means tomato. Why don’t they just say tomato?
Sometimes you recognize all the ingredients - except one. Roast (ok) pork (ok) with apple sauce (ok) and seared Ulluco. Uh-oh. Ulluco sounds like it may still have eyes attached. Pan-seared halibut sounds familiar, but unfortunately that psychotic chef has coated it in rocambole jus . Some poor rocambole (which I imagine is some sort of shrew) has been squeezed all over a nice bit of fish. Time for another bread roll.
Thank goodness for dessert! You won’t find any raw cow or crusty crustations in that. Probably.
Although you are reasonably safe ordering anything from the dessert menu, don’t expect your expectations to match what is plonked in front of you.
Four things are guaranteed:
Chocolate cake! With shrew!- Your dessert will be six times smaller than expected.
- There will be a single strawberry and two blueberries somewhere on the plate.
- The plate will be coated with a squiggle of unidentifiable brown sauce (probably chocolate and rocambole jus).
- Your dessert will cost six times more than expected.
If you are invited to a fancy restaurant this weekend, be prepared. Be prepared to face three courses of embarrassment, indigestible food and disappointment. Or tell your host you refuse to eat there as you contracted food poisoning after your last visit. Their carpaccio was suspiciously warm.