After getting our hopes and dreams dashed by thinking that we had found a reliably better than not good DFAC, we’ve started eating each meal somewhere different again. Of course, there’s a limit to how infrequent you can make your revisits given that there’s only seven DFACS to choose from. We did, however, manage to eat at six of them in the last three days. Welcome to a whirlwind tour of KAF DFAC cuisine.
Tea Party Politics
We’ll start our journey with a minor additional bitch about the IH which I wrote about a couple of days ago. I’ve whinged about the excessive distance between the cups and drinks before…yeah, several times…but it seems that no one is taking me seriously. To drive home the significance of this problem I’ve taken a picture to show what kind of immense distance I’m talking about. There’s very little room to set one’s tray near the dispensers so I left it by the cups as I got my drinks. It took me so long to get over to the dispensers that, by the time I got back, there was a young Asian woman dipping a tea bag into a cup of hot water on my tray. I looked on in bemusement as she proceeded to lift my tray and begin to walk away. “Umm…I think you have my tray”. “Oh, sorry, so sorry…” she replied in broken and seemingly fearful English as she moved her cup to her tray a few feet away. Trying to allay her concern, I jokingly said “That’s ok, and thanks for the tea” which she immediately put back on my tray saying “Ok, ok”. I enjoyed the tea but you see what kind of mayhem and potential international incidents can ensue when you put the cups too far away from the drinks. It’s irresponsible.
Regrets, I’ve Had A Few
J, M and I went to the Lux for dinner last night. I had suggested it as we got in the car because “it’s like a morgue in there”. Under intensive smartass interrogation by J on the drive over I had to admit that there were, in fact, no dead bodies and it didn’t smell of rotting flesh…”it’s just quiet” I sheepishly admitted. “Perhaps you should have said it’s ‘like a library’ then”, J admonished. Ugh…only ..5 more shaves..only 5 more shaves.
Against my better judgement I had the baked fish. I don’t remember what else was on the menu but it looked nasty enough for me to think the fish would be better. The last time I had unbreaded baked fish here it was so mushy that I couldn’t tell if it was raw or overcooked. That should give you some indication of the level of attractiveness of the other stuff on the menu. Anyway, as I morosely wandered to the table looking at the shit on my tray and pondering the food choices I’d made this night, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of regret. It was short-lived, however, because, much to my surprise, the fish was pretty damn good! Sure, the rice was meh even with Tabasco sauce (hey, it was either that or mayo…the sole lonely occupants of the condiment table) but the salad was adequate. Overall, it was much better than I dared hope…heck, I’d go so far as to say it was KAF-Ok.
Dessert was a bit of a bone of contention. M’s first/second dessert course was chocolate pudding with chocolate ice cream. This led to yet another inane conversation between three people, two of whom are, evidently, slowly going insane. “That sounds disgusting” I suggested. “No, Brussel sprouts and pancakes sounds disgusting” replied M. “Those fucking Belgians are like a mix of the Dutch, French and German, that can’t be good” chimed in J. “Ever see that Monty Python sketch where they have a contest to come up with a pejorative for Belgians and the winning entry is ‘Belgians’?” I add trying to compete with J’s offensive bigotry. “Belgians…the word sounds ‘sweaty’.” J intones to win the gold. If you’re a Belgian in KAF, particularly if you are one of the armed Belgians in KAF, we’re just kidding. Your waffles rock and I’m sure that King Leopold was just misunderstood and the whole Belgian Congo issue was blown out of proportion.
Then we moved on to a discussion of Taramisu as a result of something being labeled as such on the dessert table. M had never had Taramisu and was unsure what it was. I’ve had it several times but all I could remember was that it usually had a lady finger (the cookie not the kidnapping proof) in it. J excitedly added “And that cheese, it has that Italian cheese in it..what’s it’s name? You know, that cheese.” I shrugged. Anyway, while I enjoyed my rice pudding despite M’s constant barrage of anti-rice pudding rhetoric, J grabbed a purported Taramisu each for him and M. It was fucking cake. Sure, it had layers like Taramisu but it was just fucking cake. It didn’t have any of the…”Marscapone, it’s called marcapone, that cheese, it’s marscapone. That’s what it’s called, marscapone. The cheese I was talking about, it’s marscapone. The one in Taramisu, it’s marscapone”. Thanks J. I’m glad you remembered.
FOD on the
Flight North Line
FOD is an aviation term which misleadingly translates to Foreign Object Damage but actually refers not to damage done to aircraft by stuff (foreign objects) but rather to the objects themselves. Nuts and bolts and small children left on the flight line that could be ingested into a jet engine are examples of FOD. Essentially, it’s stuff that shouldn’t be there. Well, poor D had an encounter with FOD at the Northline during breakfast. As he downed the last of his juice-like substance, something solid came into contact with his upper lip resulting in a rather enthusiastic grunt of disgust. I imagine the experience was akin to downing the dregs from a beer bottle as, hungover, you clean up from the party of the night before and almost ingest a cigarette butt. But enough about the glory days of my youth. We’re not sure how it got into his glass but it sure didn’t resemble anything anyone had on their plate. Don’t ya just love a good mystery?
We ate breakfast at the Cambridge today. The Omelette King was his usual awesome self, frying up 9 or 10 orders at a time and never making a mistake. His patented hand on hip stance and smack of the spatula after each flip is the closest thing we get to entertainment around here. As I’ve mentioned before, his memory is such that he prepares my eggs before I have to order. Just out of curiosity, I asked him if I’d ever be able to change it. I was relieved when he responded “Yeah, yeah”. Of course, that’s the same thing he said when I asked him “How are you?” ,“How do you like the new uniforms?” and “Why’d you shave off your moustache?”
There is a bit of juice shortage going on right now such that we’re down to drinking lots of Tang and other pseudo-juices. There’s this one noxious substance called “Multi-vitamin Juice” which D selected because “it’s the only one with ‘juice’ in the name”. I’m not sure that’s sound logic. I can’t for the life of me figure out how you squeeze the juice out of a vitamin. But then again, I like Clamato, and I sure as hell don’t want to know how they get that juice.
I can’t abide the Black Currant stuff that is usually labeled with the somewhat off-putting British sobriquet of “squash”. The Multi-vitamin Juice was out of the question for the reasons I’ve elaborated above. So I had the Mango Tang as did M. As he drained his cup, he commented sardonically, “I like how the powder all settles in the bottom of the cup”. I
cheerfully sarcastically suggested that “It’s like getting a free Pixie Stix with every glass!” Except it’s not really…it’s just gross.
“No Chilis for You!”
M and I walked over to the Far East for lunch. The Asian curry stuff just wasn’t doin’ it for me and neither was the processed-looking chicken on the East Meets West line. So, it was to my old standby the Stir Fry. Today, rather than the usual chicken with rice, the sign said Chicken with Noodles. Turns out they meant ramen noodles rather than Singapore, rice, lo mein, dao xiao mian or any of the other gazillion types of good noodles available. “Oh well, I can always add some of that delicious sweet chili sauce they always have” I thought. So today, the day with the shitty stir fry is the day they don’t have any goddamn sweet chili sauce. “Dammit!”. In desperation I went to the salad bar and got some celery root salad (pretty tasty), cole slaw (nice and tangy) and spicy noodle salad (absolutely tasteless…go figger).
I warily filled half a cup with “Chocolate Milk Shake” from the slushie machine and, upon getting to the table see M tucking in to something that looks familiar. “What’s that?” “I think it’s a jalapeno popper”.”Where’d you get it?” “Next to the sandwich meats”. I should have considered the facts that he wasn’t sure it was a jalapeno even after taking a bite and that they were kept with the cold meats as ominous portents of ill-fortune. But I didn’t. The first jalapeno popper I bit into was not only stone cold but didn’t actually contain any jalapeno. The second one, also chilled, had something that looked like jalapeno but didn’t actually have any jalapeno flavour as the congealed grease/breading/cheese/jalapeno ratio very heavily favoured the first two components . The third one remained untested and is available in the third bin from the left as you exit the Far East, if you want to try it. Oh, and I’m pretty sure the milkshake was just chilled left over chocolate custard from last night’s dessert table. It’s resting next to the third jalapeno popper for those interested.
On the bright side, here’s a couple posters for movies that I’m sure would be great for anyone studying Asian culture. I wonder if they’re available on Netflix?
Reunited and It Feels So Good
When I suggested Monti tonight for dinner J thought it might be “Too soon” to go back as we only recently broke up with it. But, since we had gone to the Lux last night I figured we had to go to an American DFAC tonight and the road to the IH sucks. It’s the road featured in my Youtube hit I posted a week or two ago. J and M grumpily agreed to give the Monti another chance.
As we pulled into the nearly empty parking lot I tried to make my dinner companions feel better about my choice of DFAC by cheerily announcing “It doesn’t look too busy”, to which J replied “Maybe that’s because it’s SHITTY!” Yeah, I think he’s coming around.
While there are no crowds, things don’t begin so good because all the trays are still wet from being washed (or, at least, I hope that’s the source of all the water on them [at least, I hope that’s water on them]) and there are no tray liners. So your napkins get all damp. And what the hell is with the napkins being all nested together…I mean, they’re folded in thirds such that the last fold of the top one is intertwined with the first fold of the one below so you always end up with a giant string of napkins. It’s fucking stupid.
Anyway, me and my string of soggy napkins do a recce and determine that the “Prime Rib” looks like the best option. (Yeah, the fucking curry is still there under the “Do You Feel like Pasta Today” sign). As I got to the table J had already tucked into his beef. “How is it?” I ask. “It’s soft”. “Soft and tender are two different adjectives…I hope you mean tender”.”Yeah”. And, lo and behold, he was right. It was tender. It only took three saws of the plastic knife to get through it and I had zero tray spinnage! Plus, they’ve finally put salt and pepper on the tables! Oh Monti…ya think we could get back together and make it work?
Relax. I didn’t really take the young lady’s tea.
“Having regrets and things, it just takes your time away.” – Leif Garrett
Leif Garrett isn’t quoted as often as one might think.
“To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.” – Robert Louis Stevenson
You got that right, Bobby.