Focus On Food

Ha Ha Ha. I fucking hate you.

Ha Ha Ha. I fucking hate you.

This is, ostensibly, a blog about KAF food so, today, I’m going to try to concentrate on the comestibles with only brief forays into other shit that amused me; an emotion which, after more than 4 years in KAF, is becoming indistinguishable from being pissed off. Like, sure, it’s kinda funny to see yet another Frus…but don’t you want to go to the factory and punch Decal-Guy in the face?

Life in a Northern Land

Delish!

Delish!

We eat lunch at the North Line every bloody day so let’s start there. I gotta give them props for upping their game recently. The enchiladas at lunch today were excellent! They even had refried beans and guacamole. However, in their ongoing campaign to ensure I don’t get too happy, they did, inexplicably, move the sandwich makings such that they are now between the taco meat/shells and the taco toppings. The sandwich stuff is a huge hangout for the drones. Just take what you want for your sandwich and go somewhere else to assemble your fucking masterpiece…I can’t reach the goddamn salsa.

Oh, those Swedes!

Oh, those Swedes!

During my next leave (which begins in 748,800 seconds), my wife and I are going on a road trip to visit my Mom in Ontario. Joan is adamant that we have to stop at IKEA in Montreal because, apparently, there are some things we don’t need that we need to get there. I’ve never been to an IKEA but I hate shopping and, for me, it’s all about the destination, the journey is something to endure as you grip the wheel maniacally and speed; so I wasn’t really keen on this detour. I’ve had many a shitty Swedish meatball while making uncomfortable smalltalk with people I don’t like at potlucks throughout my adult life so they were on my “foods to avoid” list. North Line has changed all that! On a whim, I had their Swedish meatballs. They were awesome and I didn’t have to pretend to like anybody. Surely IKEA’s famous meatballs must be at least as good as what ya can get in a desert warzone, right?
Cheesy AND cooked!

Cheesy AND cooked!

NL also hit a home run with their Au Gratin Potatoes. They actually had something that tasted like cheese on them rather than the usual, insipid, Elmersgluesque topping the Cambridge usually serves ’em with. The potatoes were even cooked through but this was, evidently, just a ploy to get me to try the almost raw Scalloped Potatoes a few days later. Seriously, why the hell can you prepare perfect au gratin potatoes one day and then, just a couple of days later, be completely unable to properly cook the much simpler scalloped ones? Pro-tip: If the potatoes are crunchy like raw potatoes and taste like raw potatoes then they’re fucking raw potatoes. This is easily remedied by cooking the goddamn things. Fucksake.

Never again...

Never again…

So, how does everyone like the new, supersized air conditioners that are now up and running? Pretty fucking awesome, eh? I used to get a kick out of the sign on the old air cons that read “Do not adjust. Set for maximum efficiency” as I was dripping sweat onto my plate.

I was pretty heartened to see that they finally gave the dessert-serving-guy another ice cream scoop. It lasted all of about three days. “Hey, what happened to your scoop?” I inquired. “It broke”. What the fuck? I think I’ve owned the same ice cream scoop for like 30 years. They haven’t replace it this time so I guess they’ve just given up.

Apropos of nothing, let me just say that overhearing an American with a very strong southern accent began a sentence with “Well, see, ya’ll take an alligator…” is something I found delightful.

Brown SalmonSalmon shouldn’t be brown. I have nothing more to say on the matter.

It’s No Oxford

Cambridge has become our most frequent dinner location. Sure, we still use the DFAC-O-Matic on occasion but, sometimes, ya just wanna know there will be something for supper, like the fish and chips, that is likely to be inoffensive.

Wedges...cut them in wedges.

Wedges…cut them in wedges.

Despite L’s convoluted British logic which somehow concludes that the fish must be sprinkled with vinegar rather than lemon unless you don’t get chips with it then, of course, you may use lemon, I always put lemon on my fish. I think it’s great that Cambridge always has lemon available at the chippy but who the hell thinks that cutting the lemon in thin slices rather than wedges makes any goddamn sense? This renders them unsqueezable. You end up just mashing the pulp between your fingertips. Smarten the fuck up.

You gonna eat that, Your Highness?

You gonna eat that, Your Highness?

Speaking of Britishisms, this menu started a bit of an uprising among the colonials.
Me: “HM? Her Majesty’s Steak and Onion Pie? I don’t want the Queen’s fucking leftovers. And that gammon sure looks like ham”
L:”No, it’s gammon”.
Me: “What the hell’s the difference?”
L: “Gammon is thickly sliced and ham is thinly sliced.
Me:”So, you have different words for it depending upon how thick it’s sliced?”
L:”Yes.You don’t want little wee skinny ham slices for your tea, do you?”
Me:”That’s bloody ridiculous. What do you call thickly sliced bread?”
L: “Thickly sliced bread. What do you fucking think?”
Can we be a republic now?

This is so exciting!

This is so exciting!

So what’s the big mystery construction going on at the Cambridge? Some people think it’s new air conditioners but they’ve got the area all blocked off with sniper screen so M, L and I think it is gonna be some awesome surprise like an outdoor, Paris-style cafe with snotty waiters and cafe-au-lait because we’re idiots. What’s your guess?

Whatever could it be?

Whatever could it be?

More than stupidly named ham and fucked up lemons, the most disturbing thing Cambridge is serving up is what they’re trying to pass off as ice cream. We don’t know what it is but it sure as hell is neither cream nor ice. You can mold it into shapes like Play-doh and it kinda glistens under the fluorescent lights. But, the weirdest thing is…it doesn’t melt! L excised a specimen from M’s discarded heap and we watched it on this plate for several minutes. It never took liquid form. I don’t know what’s going on; Lux uses the same machines and, presumably, the same bucket o’ goo to fill them and their ice cream isn’t like this. It’s fucking creepy.

With a Little Lux

Shoulda eaten here yesterday.

Shoulda eaten here yesterday.

We don’t go to Lux too often because it’s pretty much the Cambridge without the chippy; however, M likes to go for the ice cream. Not a lot really stood out for me during our visits although it was once clearly day-after-banana-day. I love banana day…the day-after-banana-day not so much. They were serving banana pudding. It was a thin gruel, presumably made from mouldering bananas. Most disconcerting were the viscous, brown islands afloat on the sea of liquid banana. I assume it had been a virtual Pangea of oxidized banana before the tectonic shifts occasioned by the serving spoon disrupted it. So I had some. It actually tasted ok although its inconsistent consistency never managed to approach any viscosity compatible with banana flavour. M suggested that the DFACs may want to reconsider their “no food to leave the DFAC” policy, at least with respect to bananas on banana day.

Malayse

FE Stir Fry and PumpkinFor a change of pace, M and I walked up to the Far East for dinner. M, a shift worker, eats most lunches there and really likes the place. I find the main courses kinda shitty most of the time so always end up with the usually reliable stir fry. The Spicy Malaysian stir fry was pretty damn good. It had enough spiciness that my seething hatred for the American who took the last of the sweet chili sauce subsided to mere disdain with the first bite. My meal’s undoing, however, was the accompanying “Roast Pumpkin”. “Ew, this roast pumpkin tastes like roast pumpkin. Nobody wants to taste pumpkin. They coulda added something to mask the flavour. “, I moaned. “Yeah, whenever someone orders pumpkin, they want it to taste like something else”, M commiserated (or mocked…his tone was ambiguous). “Do they really eat this shit in Asia? I mean, I like pumpkin pie because it tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg, not like nasty old pumpkin. The smell reminds me of cleaning that gooey shit out of a jack-o-lantern”. I had figured that “roast pumpkin” sounded so awful that it had to taste good or no one would ever make or eat it. I thought I was in for some sort of surprising taste treat. When will I ever learn. This is the same misguided logic that led to the regrettable Deep Fried Dill pickle debacle of 1997.

Seconds at the Monti

How very odd.

How very odd.

Ok, Monti, I get it. We’re a captive audience living in a fucking shithole. If you can save a bit of money by serving us factory seconds, who am I to judge; but did ya really think we wouldn’t notice that you were serving cakes that were missing the icing? Come on, there’s no way the lack of icing was intentional. And what the fuck was with the memory foam consistency of this shit? I took a bite and despite forming a standard sized bolus, it immediately assumed it’s previous shape and size upon entering my esophagus. Luckily, it’s porous nature allowed me to continue breathing as it began to absorb all of the liquid in my body. L, being forewarned of the cake’s odd nature, opted for only a tiny nibble followed by about 5 minutes of playing with the cake’s remarkable resilience. “That’s not fucking cake” she was heard to exclaim.

Bottom Line

This week, the food was ‘aight.

“A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.” – Aesop

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6 thoughts on “Focus On Food

  1. Bold prediction: You will hate IKEA. It’s laid out like a giant maze but when you finally make it to the end you are rewarded, not with a nice piece of cheese, but with a huge line-up at the check-out.

  2. I too thought it was angel food cake. And as far as Ikea is concerned, don’t worry too much about the meatballs they sell, it was on the news that the meatballs sold in Ikea stores in North America, ARE NOT MADE out of horsemeat, as was the case in Europe.

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