Category: mmm… food

This morning I work up with an incredible craving for unusual meats. I blame this on last night’s exposure to Gamera Versus Guiron — another offering from MST3K. In this poorly-dubbed 1969 movie, a gigantic turtle-like creature battles to save two children from the clutches of Guiron — an oversized quadruped with a head like a ginsu knife.

During the ensuing mayhem, Joel and his bots are singing “Gameraaaaa! Gameraaaa! Gamera is really neat. He is filled with turtle meat…”. And it occurred to me that I have never tasted turtle. I can only imagine that it tastes like chicken, as every other meat does, apart from beef and Guiron.

Another meat I have often wondered about is penguin. All they do is eat fish all day and stand around. Sure it might be a little fatty, but if you drained that off after roasting, I’m sure you’d be left with some juicy, tender meat. Sort of like duck.

Mmmmmm. Roast penguin.

()

I have a weakness for greasy food. I try to stay away, but it calls out to me.

At about ten last night, the craving hit me. It occurred to me that nothing could be better than a Whopper Junior(tm) with a side of onion rings. Actually, it was a tie between that and Wendy’s “hot ‘n’ juicy” bacon mushroom melt, which is known to induce cardiac arrest within five minutes of consumption. The onion rings were the tie-breaker — there’s a little extra MSG on the onion rings at Burger King, I suspect, which makes them irresistable to me.

Now before you cast your disapproving frowns in my direction, keep in mind that all I’d eaten all day was a small salad at lunch. I’d done my healthy thing, now I had to balance that goodness with pure, hot, dripping evil. And as the King is probably Satan’s sous-chef (with Ronald as head chef, of course), I headed out to the BK drive-through.

After bellowing my order at the intercom, I found myself waiting for a few minutes while they tended to a difficult customer ahead of me in a black Mustang. For some reason, people in black Mustangs are always difficult customers.

Suddenly I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. No, it wasn’t the DTs. A small, brown rat scampered along the curb on my right and disappeared into a shrubbery. Unusually bold, I thought.

Then it scampered back and disappeared from whence it came. Interesting. Then it scampered back again, followed by another one. And another. Presently, there were close to a dozen of varying sizes, darting single file into the shrubbery. Apparently the first was just scouting ahead.

In a drive-through lineup, rat-watching is excellent entertainment.

Finally, the doofus in the Mustang drove away. I exchanged my cash for the bag of grease and, as I pulled away, I had to wait for the queue of rats to scamper across my path and into the back of the Burger King. I guess it’s true that a satisfied customer is a return customer. For minions of evil, rats are kind of cute, and I didn’t want to crush any of them under my tires.

I hoped that the BK staff kept their doors closed at night. I really didn’t want to discover anything unpleasant in my Whopper Junior. Like anything with rodent origins, specifically.

I’m sure the fine people at BK keep their establishment very clean, but all the same, I think I’ll stay away from anything on the menu with bacon bits. Or shredded, unidentifiable meat products.

That kind of excludes most of the menu.

Next time I get the late-night munchies, I’ll drop by the local pub instead. Oh, there are rats there too, but only four of them have been sighted at any one time.

()

Something was up. Something terrible.

I’m always on the lookout for conspiracies… we all should be, but as you probably know, THEY would rather have you sit placidly in your stall like penned calves whose only job is to get fattened for the kill.

But I won’t be misled. I saw it when it happened.

On Friday, our usual coffee maker and urns vanished, to be replaced by a machine. A vending machine.

So far the coffee is free, but I have noticed the inconspicuous “Insert coins here” label next to a slot on the side. I’d be willing to bet on my pet gerbil’s grave that within a month or so, we will be paying for coffee. Oh, at first it will be a nominal charge… say 25 cents… but after a while they’ll quietly raise it to thirty. Then to fifty… and so on.

Before long, we will be signing away our paycheques to support our caffeine addiction.

Or is that too obvious? Have you seen Deep Space Nine? In that (unbearably awful) Star Trek spinoff, the Jem Haddar are a race of soldiers, genetically engineered to be vicious, cruel, and have a permanent addiction to a drug called tetracell white, which can only be provided by their masters. Obedience through addiction.

Free caffeine… as long as we’re good employees.

I’m certain that Vancouver is obsessed with sushi. In the West End alone, there must be a couple dozen sushi places, ranging from high-priced Japanese restaurants to tiny hole-in-the-wall takeouts.

And the variety is stunning too: rolls with tuna, salmon (raw, smoked, or barbequed), avocado, tobiko (flying fish roe), crab (usually fake), prawn, sweet potato, chicken, beef, asperagus, cream cheese, uni (sea urchin), barbequed eel, salmon roe, inside-out rolls, regular maki, futomaki (big maki), cones, and the basic sashimi (just a tiny slab of raw fish). And I’m probably leaving out dozens of potential ingredients and variations in that list.

For me, I favour the simplicity of a few pieces of tuna sashimi.

My favourite restaurant is one that is far too conveniently located near my home. I’ve been there so often, I’m sure they’re sick of seeing me walk in the door. It’s the Clubhouse. It’s bizarre. Placed in the middle of a warehouse an industrial zone, you wouldn’t expect a restaurant like this to attract customers. Yet it’s busy virtually every night.

Why?

Sushi obsession. Vancouverites will go to lengths to combine their favourite food with a casual atmosphere. No kitchy (or kichi) pseudo-Japanese decor, please. Sofas, draught beer, nachos, and raw fish. Lots of raw fish. Need raw… fish.

I think I’ll take a trip to the fishing boats in Steveston, buy a fresh salmon, and eat it whole right there on the dock. Tourists will stare at me at I rip its belly open with my teeth and devour the innards, with slime and scales caked on my hands and face.

I won’t need to chew, because the flesh will be nice and soft — slithering easily down my throat after I dip it delicately in a bucket of soy sauce and wasabi.

The seagulls will gather around me. I’ll have to fight them for the pleasure of popping the little eyes in my mouth and ripping the tender shreds of bloody pink meat from its head.

F***ing excellent!

Or maybe I’ll just walk down the street to the takeout place.