Sometimes during the course of a day we all make costly errors in judgment regarding the foods that we eat.
It can be especially horrific when we’re far past the fundamental “I’m hungry” stage and will basically funnel down the first edible thing we happen across.
I will even go so far as to say that today I was so hungry at lunchtime that you could have given me a bowl of fresh steaming cat turds slathered in Hoisin sauce and I probably would have eaten it.
Nauseating, I know. Sorry.
I now go on record as saying I will never again eat at D’Angelo’s.
I caved the day they came out their new “Big Papi” sandwich in honor of the Red Sox DH David Ortiz.
After eating half of this heartbreaking excuse of a sandwich I took it upon myself to rename it the “Big Crappi”.
Do us all a favor and deep-six that one D’Angelo’s.
I have old shoes that look better than what you’re offering.
Come to think of it, with the right Horseradish Mayo they may taste better as well.
Yesterday, my stomach took over my brain and made me order a Chicken Cobb wrap on a sundried tomato tortilla.
Sounds ok, right?
When I think of a tortilla wrap I think of a thin, slightly warm, chewy piece of bread filled with wonderful things like grilled chicken, lettuce, tomato, onions, rice and so on. This absurdly sad tortilla (yes, for an inanimate object it was most definitely miserable) had the texture and consistency of a thick piece of Styrofoam. Not that I’ve eaten a lot of Styrofoam in my life but that’s what I thought.
It also had an unsettling and incandescent neon pink tinge to it that reminded me more of a girl’s punk hairdo than of a sundried tomato.
I hadn’t even taken a bite yet and my stomach was growling, “Bwaneee. Foo-foo-food! Bwaneee! Eat! Eat! Eat!”
How bad could it be right?
The first bite was 100% lettuce—nothing else. In retrospect, that was probably the best part of the thing. I peered into the tortilla looking for anything that closely resembled chicken. Hmm, I thought, the chicken must be more towards the middle.
It’s me and my stomach entering into this bizarre sort of culinary denial. Wonderful. I’m trapped.
I think it was the severely undercooked piece of bacon that slid halfway down my throat only to resurface that put me over the edge. It was cooked as if it were put under someone’s armpit for less than 10 seconds. Yummy. Pork-flavored bubble gum. My favorite.
This grotesque and slimy piece of pig’s ass still had ‘oink, oink’ written all over it.
I looked at the disgusting wrap, barely touched and in an instant my hunger went on a brief hiatus.
Nausea does have a tendency to do that.
I hate it when I spend money on really bad food. And yes, I should have just brought it back but I’ve never been one to do that. I don’t know why.
There’s a repulsive little bird that’s been trapped in the food court for years and he eats just about anything. He flew over to a chair next to the table I was sitting at and nervously eyed my now deserted sandwich.
I thought I’d make it easy for him so I opened up the wrap (another pleasant sight) and pushed it in his general direction, saying, “I double-dog-dare ‘ya.”
He looked at it once and looked back at me as if to say, “thanks but, no thanks, pal. I wouldn’t eat that garbage if you promised to get me out of this crappy hell hole.
I guess the bird is much smarter than I am. Go figure.
I’m looking at dropping a few pounds anyway.
Maybe D’Angelo’s ain’t so bad after all…