That’s a spicy meat-a-ball!
[ 12 Comments ] Posted on 08.07.04 in awesomeness, food
I know that many folks are finicky about what they eat. You could classify me like this too, but I try to keep an open mind about what goes into my mouth; I’ll try anything once.
Way back when we were wee tots, most of our parents fed us things like Spaghettios. And now I’m giving the well-earned props to Mr. Chef Boyardee.
Today I discovered that euphoria can be achieved with a microwave. Today I discovered that heaven really is on earth. Today I discovered Mini Bites Mini Ravioli with Mini Meatballs.
So here’s to you, Mr. Messiah of the Microwave, and thank you for the delicious distraction from my mundane life.
Taco Bell
[ 1 Comment ] Posted on 06.05.04 in complaints, food
Today, myself being the healthy young lad I am, I walked up to the local Taco Bell for lunch. It’s not a long walk, three blocks and across Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard.
I started off at about 3:10, and made it there at about 3:20, maybe later. Anyway, I walked into the store and there wasn’t anyone at the register. No problem, I just stood there and waited. And waited. And waited.
I’m not a very vocal fellow, so I didn’t pipe up so that Maria in the back could notice me. This didn’t stop another customer who had already sat down with his food.
“Service to front!”
I thought this cry to be funny, so I chuckled. I wouldn’t be chuckling for long.
I made my order: A combo number 7, containing a chicken or steak quesadilla and a taco. I put some parameters on my meal, demanding the quesadilla be of the chicken variety and my taco be soft and lacking lettuce. Lettuce is gross.
No problem – I stated my case, had a $5.00 bill in my hand, and the transaction was going smoothly. That is, of course, until she did the unthinkable.
After I hand her my money, she dispenses 83 cents change, I say, “Thank you much,” and she says, “Sure, hun.”
I’ve never been particularly fond of pet names, but I’ve put up with them. Until now. The superfluous “hun” that little Maria entered into our business transaction wasn’t the sort of “hun” that a female says to a male. The way she presented it, she used the “hun” that one uses when talking to a six year old. A condescending, patronizing pet name. Granted, I’m short. Granted, I was walking up to the Bell in 90 degree heat. Granted, I may have looked helpless. I was not, however, helpless enough to warrant a name such as this.
And another thing. You do not introduce personal conversation into the transaction. Your job is to sell me tacos. My job is to eat them. Any other discussion or odd names takes from the professionalism of the two-bit operation you call Taco Bell.
A Late One
[ 4 Comments ] Posted on 03.30.04 in awesomeness, food
This past week I went with my youth group to tour colleges around America’s eastern states. Soon into the trip, we found ourselves at Transylvania University in Lexington, Kentucky. Those kind folks let us eat in their cafeteria, and yes: it was typical college food.
Or so I thought, until I stepped up to the soda fountain. Coke? No. Sprite? No. But then, like a glimmering beacon in the Midwestern sky that illuminated my meal and, inevitably, my life, shone the logo of a soft drink called Ale-8-1. Now, a plain white background with a red ALE81 on the back would normally dissuade me from partaking in such a beverage, but just before I stepped away from the fountain to fill up my cup with another cola, I saw the subtitle on the label for Ale-8-1: “Kentucky’s Soft Drink.”
“Kentucky’s soft drink?! A whole state of refined citizens such as the loyal Kentuckians can’t be wrong!”
So with that, a beautiful relationship began. Before the end of the meal consisting of one grilled cheese sandwich and an entire plate full of creamed corn, I had downed 4 glasses of the most glorious ale and, like a child at the end of Frosty the Snowman where Frosty melts, lowered my head into a weep knowing that I would never see my beloved Ale-8-1 again – it being Kentucky’s Soft Drink and all. I doubt Kentucky would want to share such a blessing with dirty old Florida.
As I walked out of the college and to the van which was about to depart for Nashville, Tennessee, I saw it. Just like the beacon that shone so brightly in the soft drinks line minutes before, the machine emitted sort of a glow; not a light that would catch the normal person by surprise, but a certain difference was noticeable between the Ale-8-1 and the other dim and uninviting machines. Sure, it looked like it was 40 years old. Sure, most of the buttons didn’t work. And sure, 60 cents is an odd price for a soda. But there it stood, coaxing the dimes from my pocket and filling my stomach with liquid sunshine.
I bought two cans that day, and all the convenience stores around were closed. Two cans were all I could afford, and one actually made it home with me tonight. It stood in the fridge and, as it became cold, I’m pretty sure I could hear faint cries from the insulated realm of frigid consumables crying for the mercy of this newcomer: “Don’t hurt me, Ale-8-1! We do respect you, master! You are our king!” Never heard another beverage cry for mercy? Believe me, the orange juice can act like a little schoolgirl.
As I sit back and drink it now, I can’t tell why I like it. It’s sort of like ginger ale, but without the ginger. A watered down cream soda and a less-carbonated Sprite, so to speak.
It could be the fact that there is a mere 37mg of caffeine within it’s delightful splendor. But I’ve never really been a stickler for health content; that must not be it.
Maybe it’s the name. Sure, “Ale Eighty-one,” You say. And that’s what I thought until I saw the vending machine. The soda fountain read Ale81, but the machine read Ale-8-One. So, for about two days I supposed it to be pronounced “Ale Eight One.” Until, of course I read upon the can that I purchased for sixty cents, “A late one.” You would think that a person such as I, one who can spot a lousy pun from a mile away, would be able to decipher such a name in a speedier time than that. Nevertheless, it is indeed “a late one,” a name that boggles my mind further and increases my love for the beverage.
I still don’t know what it’s all about. Nor do I care. As I sit here and drink the last of the perfection that was successfully canned back in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, I can’t help but mourn the fact that unless I obtain a credit card and order some from the internet or move to beautiful Appalachia, I will never again taste the glory that has grazed my taste buds for the past week.
I salute you, Ale-8-1.