We had our standard lunch at the Northline and then opted for the IH for dinner. Both venues were the site of semi-miraculous events. Bear in mind that I consider having the right forms to renew my KAF pass on my first visit to badging (despite the ever changing regs) to be irrefutable proof of the existence of Horus so I may be setting the miracle bar kinda low.
M theorized that IH would be a good choice because “it is far away”. I was still trying to get a grip on his logic as we bounced over the worst road in KAF on our way there. His hypothesis turned out to be flawed.
I opted for the veal cutlet. It looked better than the jambalaya but that ain’t sayin’ much. With my first bite I was at a loss for words to describe the sensation of chewing it. It wasn’t until we were on the way home that the right analogy dawned on me. Have you ever worked with MDF while building something? That shit creates a hell of a lot of dust. Hypothetically speaking, if one were to have to cut up thousands of board feet of the stuff because one’s wife wanted a wall of bookshelves even though one already had bookshelves throughout the house and most of the books needing shelf space were her’s anyway but one did it to keep her happy even though one’s carpentry skills kinda suck and one’s inherently lazy and she said she’d do the painting but it didn’t actually get painted for two years and only after she’d hired a painter, and if one were to see lots of warnings about MDF on the web like ” cut only in well ventilated areas” and “caution-toxic dust” but ignore them all, you could end up inhaling tons of sawdust made up of glue and wood particles that would coat your tongue and entire mouth in a dry, synthetic-flavoured melange of nastiness. The veal tasted like that.
I also had the rice which was spiced with something I didn’t care for while J had some fries that looked decent enough. The problem was that he had seen the curried pork and thought “Hey, a little bit of the that curry sauce is just the thing for my fries”. At the table he took one taste and exclaimed “Oh no…no, that was a mistake” which he tried to correct in his odd 1/2 Dutch way by adding some mayonnaise. It ran out of the little packet in a very uncharacteristically non-vicous,
non-mayonnaissy manner causing J to erupt “It keeps getting worse, that’s not mayonnaise”. Umm, yeah it is J. The problem is: it’s got Arabic writing on it. If J ever read this blog he’d know that any food item with Arabic writing on it is gonna be full of nasty surprises.
So at this point I’m sure you’re thinking “Oh my, I suppose there’s nothing to be done. That meal is a complete write-off. Those poor boys. They deserve so much better. Well, maybe not J, after all he fucked up his own fries; but M and Kafoodie certainly do. I love Kafoodie. He’s awesome.” Well, just hold on there a minute cowpoke. This is where the magic happens.The Holy Trinity of Texas Pete’s Hot Sauce (on my rice), Heinz 57 (on the
sawdust veal and J’s fries) and Chocolate Pudding sans scab (for dessert) miraculously transformed these foul comestibles into an edible, not awful meal. Thanks St. Augustine! Now if only they could turn our bottled water into wine.
Ok, it wasn’t quite like that but it sure reminded me of every scene in every western when the stranger walks into town. We knew right away they weren’t KAF regulars or even newbies. KAF women don’t wear pink coats and boots with heels and KAF guys don’t style their hair at all much less in a hipster cut. And what’s with the clothes that aren’t beige? We also noted that they seemed to actually be enjoying each others’ company and listening to what their lunch companions were saying rather than just pretending to or staring disconsolately at their tray of slop. Fuckin’ wannabes. Anyway, there were 10 or 12 of them but I didn’t take pictures as I thought that might seem a little pathetic. So I found a reasonable facsimile on the web (by Googling “hipster”). See if you can tell which one is the KAF contractor and which one is the hipster! If anyone knows who the hell all these fish outta water might be…send me a message. D thinks they may be reporters but my money’s on either some sort of music group or a roving band of itinerant beat poets.
Women with make up and heels in the Northline, shitty food transubstantiated into edible meals in Independence Hall…certainly unexpected, seemingly miraculous events. Problem is I don’t know how to tell evidence of Thor’s beneficence from signs of an impending zombie apocalypse.
“Always look on the bright side of life” -Brian Cohen