And now for a continuation of my "what's the worst thing you've ever found in your food" series....
About a year ago, my friend's three brothers came into Santa Barbara for a visit from Canada. For the first several days of their visit, my friend himself was out of town, so I took it upon myself to show them around our sunny paradise.
One of the things they wanted to do on their trip was have some good Mexican food, and being that we're closer to the source than frigid Canada, I figured it would be easy to accommodate this request. As a Chinese immigrant, I'm someone who likes the real food - I'll eat chicken feet from a cart in the street, and I will only reluctantly call anything served in a restaurant in town "Chinese food". So when I thought about where to take the three brothers for good Mexican food, I figured I would try to find something that was authentic Mexican food. Authentic, to me, = Good.
~ Enter Lilly's Taqueria ~
Lilly's Taqueria is a quaint little taco joint at the very end of Chapala where the street dead-ends into the 101. The food is real and delicious, the tacos are served on little corn tortillas that are handmade on site. It's one of those ethnic restaurants where 98% of the clientèle is of the same ethnicity as the food being served. Every time I've been to Lilly's, me and the people I'm with are the only non-Mexican patrons.
This taqueria doesn't boast a large menu; the only item available is the taco. It is served in 8 different incarnations; Beef, Steamed Beef, Marinated Pork, Head, Tongue, Cheek, Lip, and Eye. This limited menu is written in dry-erase marker on a white board hanging behind the cash register. When an item gets sold out for the day, it is erased.
I walk in with my three Canadian guests; Ryan, Matt, and the youngest, Mike. They gander at the menu and decide to each get some regular tacos (Pork or Beef) and then to each get one strange taco (Head, Tongue, Cheek, Lip, or Eye). An informal poll was taken amongst us, and Eye was voted to be the craziest of the available meats, and Mike, being the youngest, was voted to be the Eye consumer. Yum.
We all ordered our little tacos, loaded them up with goodness from the salsa bar, and sit down to chow on the steamy treasures. Much to my chagrin, the Eye taco didn't come in the form of recognizable eyeballs wrapped in a tortilla. Actually, it was pretty difficult to discern one type of meat from the other. We sat there, eating our tacos one by one, the boys each saving the strange taco for last. Good sports as they are, they ate them without complaint, and seemed to even enjoy themselves. Mike obediently and quietly ate his eyeball taco.
And he silently spit something out.
And it made a soft "clink" against the plastic table top.
We all stop eating to take a closer look at what exactly came out of Mike's mouth.
It was a tooth.
It wasn't Mike's tooth. It was the taco's tooth. Where it came from before it became the taco's tooth was anybody's guess. All four of us took turns examining the tooth. It certainly didn't look big enough to have come from a pig or a cow. On top of which, it had come from the Eye taco, not the Lip, Tongue, or Cheek taco. Eye Taco, Not Mouth Taco. This was ocular dentata.
Okay, say there's a very deformed and inbred cow or pig out there. One who was the product of many generations of mating practices from the rural deep south. And it had grown a tooth in it's eye. Okay, that's fine. But seriously, this tooth looked human. Like Javier in the kitchen knocked his face into the pantry and he didn't manage to salvage his oral nugget for the tooth fairy.
Mike was less than impressed with his unconventional condiment. Matt, on the other hand, was just as thrilled as I, and pocketed the tooth to keep as his souvenir of his trip to Santa Barbara. I wonder if he still has it, or if he took it home and put it under his pillow and woke up the next morning to find a taco staring back at him.
Friday, February 6, 2009
it was like a relationship gone bad....
This is a review that I posted to santabarbara.com for Pattaya
It looks like I'm only allowed 200 words for this review, and I'm not to be excessively negative and am to use constructive criticism. Here is my review, edited for time and content; I came to the restaurant when it opened, with open, loving arms, and was so excited about the place I could barely sit still when I ordered. My first experience there was decent, though I had to ask the waitress for utensils and a napkin after our food came.
Every trip back since has been worse than the one before it. In the 5 or so times I've gone back, something has always been bad.
1) Panang Chicken Curry - My main complaint is that it lacked the CURRY. It had chicken, it had veggies, it had coconut milk, but as far as I could taste, someone forgot the curry. It should have been marketed as cream of chicken soup. Tip: remember to add the appropriate spices.
2) Buffalo Chicken Strips - It's on the menu (though the waitresses don't seem to be aware of this) but it's only ever been successfully ordered once. Every other attempt to get buffalo chicken strips has been a disaster. Tip: Have your staff aware of and be able to make what you have on the menu.
3) Chicken strips and fries - I ordered the plain chicken strips and 5 chicken strips came out on a plate. 2 normal strips stacked on top of 3 severely burnt strips. The strips tasted distinctly like the refrigerator, and left the aftertaste of garbage in my mouth. I brought this to the attention of the waitress but no attempts at reparation were made. Tip: Do not serve food that is old and/or has been left open in the fridge so long it tastes like the fridge. Or buy some baking soda for your fridge. Also, if a customer finds the dish inedible, s/he shouldn't have to pay money for it.
4) Lights went dim and turned colors while we were eating - I can't speak for other people, but if I sit down in a normally lit restaurant, I am not happy when it suddenly looks like I'm eating in the red light district. Tip: Let your customers see what they are eating, all the way through the meal.
5) Restaurant or club? - Pick one and stick with it. At least during normal dining hours. Had I known that I would be assaulted with ear-busting funk music at 8pm when I sat down for dinner at 7:30, I wouldn't have sat down to begin with. Tip: Do your customers a favor and try to leave their eardrums intact.
6) Utensils should be provided - or at least a disclaimer that states "Bring your own utensils or eat with your hands" should be posted. I've never, NOT A SINGLE TIME, been to Pattaya and not had to ask for utensils after my food arrived. The waitress leaves me sitting at the table for several minutes staring stupidly at my food before I have to flag her down to get something with which to eat my food. Tip: Train your waitstaff to bring items necessary for the consumption of food, or warn your patrons that you're a 'fingerfood' establishment.
It looks like I'm only allowed 200 words for this review, and I'm not to be excessively negative and am to use constructive criticism. Here is my review, edited for time and content; I came to the restaurant when it opened, with open, loving arms, and was so excited about the place I could barely sit still when I ordered. My first experience there was decent, though I had to ask the waitress for utensils and a napkin after our food came.
Every trip back since has been worse than the one before it. In the 5 or so times I've gone back, something has always been bad.
1) Panang Chicken Curry - My main complaint is that it lacked the CURRY. It had chicken, it had veggies, it had coconut milk, but as far as I could taste, someone forgot the curry. It should have been marketed as cream of chicken soup. Tip: remember to add the appropriate spices.
2) Buffalo Chicken Strips - It's on the menu (though the waitresses don't seem to be aware of this) but it's only ever been successfully ordered once. Every other attempt to get buffalo chicken strips has been a disaster. Tip: Have your staff aware of and be able to make what you have on the menu.
3) Chicken strips and fries - I ordered the plain chicken strips and 5 chicken strips came out on a plate. 2 normal strips stacked on top of 3 severely burnt strips. The strips tasted distinctly like the refrigerator, and left the aftertaste of garbage in my mouth. I brought this to the attention of the waitress but no attempts at reparation were made. Tip: Do not serve food that is old and/or has been left open in the fridge so long it tastes like the fridge. Or buy some baking soda for your fridge. Also, if a customer finds the dish inedible, s/he shouldn't have to pay money for it.
4) Lights went dim and turned colors while we were eating - I can't speak for other people, but if I sit down in a normally lit restaurant, I am not happy when it suddenly looks like I'm eating in the red light district. Tip: Let your customers see what they are eating, all the way through the meal.
5) Restaurant or club? - Pick one and stick with it. At least during normal dining hours. Had I known that I would be assaulted with ear-busting funk music at 8pm when I sat down for dinner at 7:30, I wouldn't have sat down to begin with. Tip: Do your customers a favor and try to leave their eardrums intact.
6) Utensils should be provided - or at least a disclaimer that states "Bring your own utensils or eat with your hands" should be posted. I've never, NOT A SINGLE TIME, been to Pattaya and not had to ask for utensils after my food arrived. The waitress leaves me sitting at the table for several minutes staring stupidly at my food before I have to flag her down to get something with which to eat my food. Tip: Train your waitstaff to bring items necessary for the consumption of food, or warn your patrons that you're a 'fingerfood' establishment.
When the worst thing in your food is the food itself…
Okay, okay. Per request, I will tell my story of Pattaya, home of the garbage chicken. I apologize; this story is long and rambling. I haven’t had much to do today.
So I don’t know how many of you have ever driven down Hollister in Old Town Goleta and noticed this building that used to be home of “Alex’s Cantina”. Alex’s Cantina had the dubious distinction of being the first “club” I’d ever gone to – and I went when I was 13… so we can see how awesome the party scene is in the OTG. Anyhow, Alex’s closed many moons ago, probably sometime in the mid to late nineties. It sat empty for a short while, and then a shiny, bright new sign went up that said “Pattaya”.
I got really excited. It’s my personal belief that while Santa Barbara has the potential for some cool restaurants, most of them are lacking, and those that don’t fall flat in the flavor category really try to take your dignity in the price category. One can imagine, then, how the arrival of a new establishment so close to my abode in a low-rent neighborhood piqued my fancy.
But it never opened. There it sat, that shiny new “Pattaya” sign atop the impenetrable building, and it teased me. That sign bore into my soul and whispered sweet promises in my ear every time I drove past it, telling me that something amazing and delicious sat inside its dirty white walls, but that I would never experience it because I wasn’t good enough; I had not yet earned my place.
So I waited, like most of Goleta, waited for three long years. Many explanations for the mysterious and forever closed restaurant were floated. I was convinced it was a front for the Mob.
And then, one day, on an excursion to find nom noms, Kneil and I drove past AND IT WAS OPEN. A great big vinyl “Grand Opening” sign hung floppily above its glorious open doors. It was all I could do to not slam on my brakes in the middle of Hollister traffic and swerve toward the lights glowing from inside the restaurant.
We parked. We went in. IT WAS BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED. One of my most favorite things in the world is variety; many of you who have eaten with me may have seen me order 2-3 peoples’ worth of food just because I want to try a little bit of everything. Pattaya offered variety. It was both a Thai restaurant and a sports bar. O.M.G.
Kneil and I ordered some appetizers and I ordered a salmon burger. Although we had to ask the waitress for utensils, my salmon burger was tasty; the buffalo chicken strips Kneil ordered were, well, the spiciest things on Earth. It was as if God himself had slathered the chicken strips in molten lava. I was so pleased. The food, although not the most delicious I had ever had, was ample, unique, and appetizing. I proclaimed that this was to be my new favorite restaurant. We took our leftovers home and shared them with Dan. Dan fell in love with the flaming chicken and tried immediately to order some. Luckily I collect restaurant menus and had brought one home with me. They claimed to serve food until 1am. We felt that at 10pm, Dan had a good chance at acquiring some food.
Dan called and the phone rang for ages. Finally someone picked up; then promptly hung up. Dan was crushed. After a few minutes of Dan’s pouting, Terri decided to give it a try. Terri’s call was answered but she was informed that the kitchen was closed. The man on the phone kindly offered to give her free chicken next time she came in if she just mentioned the conversation they had. Yay, free food.
Terri went to Pattaya at a later date and tried to cash in on the free buffalo chicken strips. They brought out a giant plate of plain chicken strips. She brought this mistake to the attention of the waitstaff, who apologized, then brought out another identical plate of plain chicken strips. Defeated by the ineptitude of the restaurant staff, Terri decided to cut her losses and just settle with the pound of fried chicken that had been presented to her. She brought them home to Dan, who ate ALL THE CHICKEN and then had stomach problems. Dan, in his infinite wisdom, decided to remedy his over-stuffed stomach by ingesting approximately half a gallon of soy milk. Go Dan.
Since the grand opening a couple months ago, my friends and I have probably patronized this establishment a handful of times. With each visit, the food and the service got progressively worse. There was one night when I ordered Panang Chicken Curry and received what could only be described as cream of chicken soup – it was as if they had forgotten to add the curry. Terri and Dan had made a third attempt to get buffalo chicken strips only to receive chicken strips with a side of buffalo sauce. Not once have I eaten there that I’ve gotten a napkin and utensils without having to either ask for them or get up and steal them myself.
And then the night of the garbage chicken happened.
One fateful night about two weeks ago, Kneil, Dan, and I went to Pattaya for dinner. Kneil ordered Pad Thai, Dan made yet another attempt at buffalo chicken strips, and I ordered chicken strips and fries. First we spent several minutes trying to explain the buffalo chicken strips to the waitress. We even described in detail the chicken that we had gotten from that very establishment a month earlier. She was puzzled and claimed that there was no such item on the menu even though “buffalo chicken strips” was written on the menu. We thought we had finally conveyed to her what it was that we wanted – she scribbled something on her pad.
Before the food arrived, the lights in the restaurant dimmed from regular yellow/white to prostitution red. Extremely loud funk music began to play. A steady stream of people began to come in through the back door, most of who looked like gang members, all of whom gathered on the stage at the front of the restaurant around a laptop.
When the food arrived, Dan received what looked like Parmesan Chicken, but without red sauce. We had to ask for some spicy sauce for his chicken, and the waitress brought him a carousel of Asian sauces. So Dan ate his chicken covered in what was probably Sriracha sauce.
I looked at my plate of chicken and fries. There were five pieces of meat, two normal-colored pieces stacked on top of three severely burnt pieces. I took a bite of one of the normal looking pieces, and what I tasted could only be described as “refrigerator”. It was almost as if my mouth was a box of baking soda which had been inserted into an overstuffed college fridge that had never been cleaned and I was absorbing into my taste buds the amalgamation of odors that had been floating aimlessly inside the icy dungeon for years. I put down the chicken, drank some water, ate a few French fries, and stole some of Kneil’s Pad Thai. My mind had not quite yet processed the horror which had just occurred in my mouth. I don’t eat meat often. Maybe that’s just what meat tastes like. I picked up the chicken and took another bite.
Nope. There it was again. It was like a Frigidaire took a dump in my mouth. I dipped my chicken in some ranch dressing and bit again. This time, after the initial creamy goodness of ranch, was the awesome aftertaste of garbage. At this point Dan had finished his chicken, and I offered him a piece of mine. He ate it. And this is what he told me,
“I realize that you don’t eat a lot of chicken, so you may not know, but as someone who eats a lot of chicken, I can say that that chicken is really bad.”
Well, at least it wasn’t me.
Throughout our meal, much rearranging of the restaurant occurred. Tables and chairs were moved to create what appeared to be a dance floor. No one stood upon it, though it was safe to say the majority of the people inside the restaurant were now standing around the magical laptop on stage. It looked like some modern rendition of West Side Story was about to play out. At one point a random man came to our table and asked if we were staying for ‘the event’ and attempted to collect money, but we replied that we were simply there for dinner. He moved on to another table and successfully extracted some greenbacks from them.
When the waitress came to check on us, I informed her that the chicken tasted like garbage. Well, like the inside of a refrigerator with an aftertaste of garbage. She said she was sorry and went to get our check. Much time passed. No ‘event’ happened, though it had been half an hour since the man made an attempt to collect cover for said event. The music continued to be so loud we had to shout to converse.
Finally the waitress returned with our check. No credit was given; the garbage chicken remained on the check. If she insisted on charging us for the chicken, she should have at least had the good humor to modify our itemized check to reflect an order of “garbage chicken”. We paid and left, feeling raped in the mouth, ears, and pocketbook.
I may one day return to Fresh Start for another meal of broken glass. I will NEVER return to Pattaya for a second serving of garbage chicken.
So I don’t know how many of you have ever driven down Hollister in Old Town Goleta and noticed this building that used to be home of “Alex’s Cantina”. Alex’s Cantina had the dubious distinction of being the first “club” I’d ever gone to – and I went when I was 13… so we can see how awesome the party scene is in the OTG. Anyhow, Alex’s closed many moons ago, probably sometime in the mid to late nineties. It sat empty for a short while, and then a shiny, bright new sign went up that said “Pattaya”.
I got really excited. It’s my personal belief that while Santa Barbara has the potential for some cool restaurants, most of them are lacking, and those that don’t fall flat in the flavor category really try to take your dignity in the price category. One can imagine, then, how the arrival of a new establishment so close to my abode in a low-rent neighborhood piqued my fancy.
But it never opened. There it sat, that shiny new “Pattaya” sign atop the impenetrable building, and it teased me. That sign bore into my soul and whispered sweet promises in my ear every time I drove past it, telling me that something amazing and delicious sat inside its dirty white walls, but that I would never experience it because I wasn’t good enough; I had not yet earned my place.
So I waited, like most of Goleta, waited for three long years. Many explanations for the mysterious and forever closed restaurant were floated. I was convinced it was a front for the Mob.
And then, one day, on an excursion to find nom noms, Kneil and I drove past AND IT WAS OPEN. A great big vinyl “Grand Opening” sign hung floppily above its glorious open doors. It was all I could do to not slam on my brakes in the middle of Hollister traffic and swerve toward the lights glowing from inside the restaurant.
We parked. We went in. IT WAS BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED. One of my most favorite things in the world is variety; many of you who have eaten with me may have seen me order 2-3 peoples’ worth of food just because I want to try a little bit of everything. Pattaya offered variety. It was both a Thai restaurant and a sports bar. O.M.G.
Kneil and I ordered some appetizers and I ordered a salmon burger. Although we had to ask the waitress for utensils, my salmon burger was tasty; the buffalo chicken strips Kneil ordered were, well, the spiciest things on Earth. It was as if God himself had slathered the chicken strips in molten lava. I was so pleased. The food, although not the most delicious I had ever had, was ample, unique, and appetizing. I proclaimed that this was to be my new favorite restaurant. We took our leftovers home and shared them with Dan. Dan fell in love with the flaming chicken and tried immediately to order some. Luckily I collect restaurant menus and had brought one home with me. They claimed to serve food until 1am. We felt that at 10pm, Dan had a good chance at acquiring some food.
Dan called and the phone rang for ages. Finally someone picked up; then promptly hung up. Dan was crushed. After a few minutes of Dan’s pouting, Terri decided to give it a try. Terri’s call was answered but she was informed that the kitchen was closed. The man on the phone kindly offered to give her free chicken next time she came in if she just mentioned the conversation they had. Yay, free food.
Terri went to Pattaya at a later date and tried to cash in on the free buffalo chicken strips. They brought out a giant plate of plain chicken strips. She brought this mistake to the attention of the waitstaff, who apologized, then brought out another identical plate of plain chicken strips. Defeated by the ineptitude of the restaurant staff, Terri decided to cut her losses and just settle with the pound of fried chicken that had been presented to her. She brought them home to Dan, who ate ALL THE CHICKEN and then had stomach problems. Dan, in his infinite wisdom, decided to remedy his over-stuffed stomach by ingesting approximately half a gallon of soy milk. Go Dan.
Since the grand opening a couple months ago, my friends and I have probably patronized this establishment a handful of times. With each visit, the food and the service got progressively worse. There was one night when I ordered Panang Chicken Curry and received what could only be described as cream of chicken soup – it was as if they had forgotten to add the curry. Terri and Dan had made a third attempt to get buffalo chicken strips only to receive chicken strips with a side of buffalo sauce. Not once have I eaten there that I’ve gotten a napkin and utensils without having to either ask for them or get up and steal them myself.
And then the night of the garbage chicken happened.
One fateful night about two weeks ago, Kneil, Dan, and I went to Pattaya for dinner. Kneil ordered Pad Thai, Dan made yet another attempt at buffalo chicken strips, and I ordered chicken strips and fries. First we spent several minutes trying to explain the buffalo chicken strips to the waitress. We even described in detail the chicken that we had gotten from that very establishment a month earlier. She was puzzled and claimed that there was no such item on the menu even though “buffalo chicken strips” was written on the menu. We thought we had finally conveyed to her what it was that we wanted – she scribbled something on her pad.
Before the food arrived, the lights in the restaurant dimmed from regular yellow/white to prostitution red. Extremely loud funk music began to play. A steady stream of people began to come in through the back door, most of who looked like gang members, all of whom gathered on the stage at the front of the restaurant around a laptop.
When the food arrived, Dan received what looked like Parmesan Chicken, but without red sauce. We had to ask for some spicy sauce for his chicken, and the waitress brought him a carousel of Asian sauces. So Dan ate his chicken covered in what was probably Sriracha sauce.
I looked at my plate of chicken and fries. There were five pieces of meat, two normal-colored pieces stacked on top of three severely burnt pieces. I took a bite of one of the normal looking pieces, and what I tasted could only be described as “refrigerator”. It was almost as if my mouth was a box of baking soda which had been inserted into an overstuffed college fridge that had never been cleaned and I was absorbing into my taste buds the amalgamation of odors that had been floating aimlessly inside the icy dungeon for years. I put down the chicken, drank some water, ate a few French fries, and stole some of Kneil’s Pad Thai. My mind had not quite yet processed the horror which had just occurred in my mouth. I don’t eat meat often. Maybe that’s just what meat tastes like. I picked up the chicken and took another bite.
Nope. There it was again. It was like a Frigidaire took a dump in my mouth. I dipped my chicken in some ranch dressing and bit again. This time, after the initial creamy goodness of ranch, was the awesome aftertaste of garbage. At this point Dan had finished his chicken, and I offered him a piece of mine. He ate it. And this is what he told me,
“I realize that you don’t eat a lot of chicken, so you may not know, but as someone who eats a lot of chicken, I can say that that chicken is really bad.”
Well, at least it wasn’t me.
Throughout our meal, much rearranging of the restaurant occurred. Tables and chairs were moved to create what appeared to be a dance floor. No one stood upon it, though it was safe to say the majority of the people inside the restaurant were now standing around the magical laptop on stage. It looked like some modern rendition of West Side Story was about to play out. At one point a random man came to our table and asked if we were staying for ‘the event’ and attempted to collect money, but we replied that we were simply there for dinner. He moved on to another table and successfully extracted some greenbacks from them.
When the waitress came to check on us, I informed her that the chicken tasted like garbage. Well, like the inside of a refrigerator with an aftertaste of garbage. She said she was sorry and went to get our check. Much time passed. No ‘event’ happened, though it had been half an hour since the man made an attempt to collect cover for said event. The music continued to be so loud we had to shout to converse.
Finally the waitress returned with our check. No credit was given; the garbage chicken remained on the check. If she insisted on charging us for the chicken, she should have at least had the good humor to modify our itemized check to reflect an order of “garbage chicken”. We paid and left, feeling raped in the mouth, ears, and pocketbook.
I may one day return to Fresh Start for another meal of broken glass. I will NEVER return to Pattaya for a second serving of garbage chicken.
What's the worst thing you've ever found in your food?
So this past Sunday I went to IV for brunch, and ended up at that new-ish place, Fresh Start. It seems to be owned by a gentle branch of the Russian Mafia - one that’s interested in crepes and fruit. Brent and I ordered a breakfast combo with potatoes, eggs, and sausage plus a strawberry banana crepe to split.
The food came to us quickly; it was plentiful, tasty, and cheap. I was pleased. I felt I had found a good deal and perhaps a new place to frequent.
Until…
I had a mouthful of homefried potatoes, and as I was chewing, I bit down on something strange and hard. I worked it slowly out of my mouth, picked it out with my fingers, and what do I see?
A piece of broken glass.
Yeah. I didn’t recall ordering my breakfast with a side of a mouthful of my own blood, but hey, I hadn’t had any coffee yet. Maybe my head was fuzzy and I really did walk up and say, “I’ll have combo #4, the Fresh Start crepe, and please, if you could, make me bleed from the inside?”
I went back in the store and showed them my little breakfast bonus, and the proprietors were understandably embarrassed. They took the piece of glass from me, back into the kitchen (perhaps to re-insert into another breakfast combo) and I went back to my breakfast. I didn’t much feel like eating after that experience, and I lacksidasically picked at the remaining food. I’m not sure if I had swallowed any other sharp fragments before I spit out my finding, but I certainly was mind-raped by the whole thing, so my mouth felt sore and my throat felt scratchy. A few minutes later, the cook came out and apologized for the mishap, explained that they get their potatoes pre-cut and packaged from their supplier, and offered me a 15% off coupon for my next visit. But I had found glass in my food during this visit. Do we really think I’m coming back?
I realize that it’s hard to run a business, that there will always be the occasional hair that ends up in someone’s food, perhaps a bug that will crawl in unnoticed, but seriously, if I find something that could injure me in my meal, I want my money back, not a coupon.
Needless to stay, my start was not so fresh, and I have deep qualms about ever going back again.
The food came to us quickly; it was plentiful, tasty, and cheap. I was pleased. I felt I had found a good deal and perhaps a new place to frequent.
Until…
I had a mouthful of homefried potatoes, and as I was chewing, I bit down on something strange and hard. I worked it slowly out of my mouth, picked it out with my fingers, and what do I see?
A piece of broken glass.
Yeah. I didn’t recall ordering my breakfast with a side of a mouthful of my own blood, but hey, I hadn’t had any coffee yet. Maybe my head was fuzzy and I really did walk up and say, “I’ll have combo #4, the Fresh Start crepe, and please, if you could, make me bleed from the inside?”
I went back in the store and showed them my little breakfast bonus, and the proprietors were understandably embarrassed. They took the piece of glass from me, back into the kitchen (perhaps to re-insert into another breakfast combo) and I went back to my breakfast. I didn’t much feel like eating after that experience, and I lacksidasically picked at the remaining food. I’m not sure if I had swallowed any other sharp fragments before I spit out my finding, but I certainly was mind-raped by the whole thing, so my mouth felt sore and my throat felt scratchy. A few minutes later, the cook came out and apologized for the mishap, explained that they get their potatoes pre-cut and packaged from their supplier, and offered me a 15% off coupon for my next visit. But I had found glass in my food during this visit. Do we really think I’m coming back?
I realize that it’s hard to run a business, that there will always be the occasional hair that ends up in someone’s food, perhaps a bug that will crawl in unnoticed, but seriously, if I find something that could injure me in my meal, I want my money back, not a coupon.
Needless to stay, my start was not so fresh, and I have deep qualms about ever going back again.
i must be on top of a REALLY tall hill
September 17, 2007
if it just continuously goes down after the 19th birthday....
in early celebration of my looming 26th, i've taken to eating bran cereal in the morning. don't laugh. it's sad. really, tragically sad.
and i was just looking over the box right now, and there's a little person icon with its arms raised above its head, and next to it, the words 'get happy inside!'
in early celebration of my looming 26th, i've taken to eating bran cereal in the morning. don't laugh. it's sad. really, tragically sad.
and i was just looking over the box right now, and there's a little person icon with its arms raised above its head, and next to it, the words 'get happy inside!'
bran does not make me happy inside. in fact, i'm fairly certain that it does just about the opposite. it makes my insides so miserable that no food that i have consumed within the last 48 hours feels that it's tolerable to remain inside me and thus all constantly fight for the exit.
i hate myself. i thought i had learned the bran lesson in high school, but apparently, i was wrong.
the dangers of finding sushi
April 17, 2007
so a continuance in jeni's adventures of being poor....
let me start off by mentioning that i realize i'm being a total brat for complaining about being broke when there are many, many people out there who are far less fortunate than myself. so take my words with a grain of salt, as really, they're more for comedy than pity.
for anyone that read my previous post about not being able to afford food - the situation has not changed overnight. so when wondering what to bring to lunch today (i devoured my last microwave dinner mid-day yesterday) i rooted through some 'mystery' bags in my refrigerator. anyone who lives with roommates has to know what i'm talking about.
these 'mystery' bags and/or tupperware are containers that mysteriously appear in the fridge, really to never be touched again. these items age peacefully in their cold dungeon, the rate of their decomposition stunted by the chilly climate. but eventually, as most things meant for consumption, they do in fact rot, and will be thrown out during a refrigerator purge.
this morning i found sushi in one of these mystery bags. oh boy. i have two housemates - one japanese grad student, one italian undergrad. my japanese housemate left the country on monday. i took his wayward girlfriend to the airport on wednesday so that she could return to london. this particular mystery container filled with sushi goodness appeared sometime between the two departures. i asked my other roomie, paul, if the sushi was his. he said no.
score! well.... sorta.
is it really a good thing to inherit week-old sushi? many people won't even take leftovers from a sushi dinner because they're afraid to eat it the next day. and as someone who has worked in several sushi restaurants, i feel that really, sushi should be eaten by the next day if you're going to keep the left overs. at the very most, the third day.
but it's been a week.
the avocado in the california roll is no longer green.
i sit.
i contemplate.
well, really, what is there to go bad in a cali roll? there's no actual fish. but this particular cali roll is covered in masago: fish eggs. do fish eggs go bad? does cooked shrimp sushi go bad? i'd give cooked seafood a better edibility prognosis than i would raw.
but hey! beggars can't be choosers. and any guilt i have about stealing my roommate's sushi is alleviated by the fact that i'm certain this meal will be completely inedible by the time he comes home.
at this point, as i type, i've eaten most of my findings. and as i sit here, i'm starting to wonder. i'm not feeling great, but it could be psychological. i'm certainly prone to psychosomatic issues. but still. was this wise? after all, it is essentially stolen sushi, and really, i could be smote by god in some awful spend-my-weekend-in-the-bathroom sort of way for stealing.
i wish there were some way i could un-eat it. i think it would have been better to be hungry.
Dolce buys me coffee
March 12, 2007
i'm going to start this post by admitting two things;
i need coffee.
i need cash.
these two truisms came to a head today when i decided to come to java station again. since i have my own cup, coffee costs me $1.25. i very rarely carry any cash on me. and i also feel a certain shame when i pay for things under $10 with plastic. i mean, i just feel that bringing paperwork into purchases that small.... there's something wrong with it. and this coffee shop doesn't accept cards anyhow.
so i decided to use dolce's allowance.
i realize that it may seem unethical to use my own dog's allowance to feed my addiction, but honestly, his money has just been sitting there, half eaten, for ages now.
maybe i should take a moment to expound on the fact that my dog gets an allowance.
yes. dolce gets an allowance. i don't give him this allowance. this is all kneil's doing. i personally feel that dolce is provided everything he needs for a happy existence, and really, without opposable thumbs, will have much difficulty spending an allowance on his own. but whatever. once in a while, kneil gives dog a dollar, a dollar which dolce always happily accepts and squirrels away in his bed under the piano. sometimes he eats some of this dollar. sometimes he doesn't. but when it comes time to clean out his bed, i find these filthy bills and put them on top of the piano. dolce quickly forgets about the cash, and generally only finds occassion to explore the top of the piano when he smells food that he can steal.
today i needed coffee. the 3/4 of the dollar bill from dolce's last allowance installment beckoned to me. it needed spent. it was tired of being ignored, tired of not being the whole dollar it once was, tired of being unappreciated as a viable piece of currency.
i am now happily enjoying a mug full of sweet iced coffee. nommers!
and kneil, if you're reading this, dog dog says he wants another dollar. something about how he wanted to treat his mommy to something nice, or a bed-cleaning tax. hard to understand what he was saying. after all, i don't speak german.
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