I’m Hungry!


Feed me, Seymour, Feed me!

 

I don’t think the waiter is coming back. It’s been three hours and I’m starting to wonder if this is even a restaurant. I keep staring at the lovely flower arrangement that serves as the centerpiece to my one person table and am becoming convinced that the petals and leaves would provide more caloric sustenance than this whole “meal” has included.

Oh I’ve got a golden tickettttttt!

So I am here in California and somehow obtained an invitation to eat, sorry…dine, at some joint called Le Singe Dégorger. My wife told me it’s a rather famous restaurant: I believe she lied. My invitation clearly stated that I was invited, nay cordially invited, to attend something called a tasting from this famous restaurant. Well I like tasty things. And any time a culinary adjective becomes a verb and then a noun, well count me in.

 

I arrived to the restaurant dressed in my absolutely finest dress clothes consisting of a beige pair of long pants along with a black polo shirt with a proud little crocodile logo on it. I arrive sans socks, of course, but the uppity guy at the door said I was required to wear a noose…sorry, tie. I told him I didn’t own one and he let me use a spare one that may have been taken off a dead customer.

I was shown to my table, which had some (previously mentioned) flowers serving as a centerpiece, but that didn’t interest me much. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now six o’clock in the evening. All day, my wife kept calling me to say how envious she was that I was going to eat at this famous, award-winning restaurant. Apparently it had won a bunch of awards from the Michelin Tire Company, so I had better respect its reputation and enjoy all the food.

 

This mustache was painted on my face by Picasso himself!

Well here I sit. The waitress brought out three huge plates with less than a bite of food on each of them. I politely inquired whether there was a food shortage of which I had not previously been made aware and she just scoffed at me. The next thing I know, she stepped down and a new waiter was assigned to me. He came back with a quarter bite of squid droppings (or so it looked) and I told him that someone had somehow spilled some sauce on the side of the plate and that the cook should be more careful. I think I heard him growl at me.

 

And what’s this? Someone, probably a prisoner with ample time on his hands, decided to cut a radish (one of the most foulest tasting vegetables on the planet) into some sort of spiral pattern, and stuck it besides a piece of pork the size of the bean I saw Mickey, Donald and Goofy split between them in Disney’s Mickey and the Beanstalk movie.

The chef, or at least I think it was the chef, came out to discuss the food with me, but not being able to speak French, I’m afraid the entire conversation was lost on me. Seemed a nice enough chap, however. Very passionate about his occupation. He possibly had a hearing problem and a need for medication for high blood pressure as his face was very red and he spoke very loudly.

I haven’t seen anyone since the chef came to speak to me. One of the wait staff was kind enough to toss a piece of bread to me a while back…well hurl a loaf of bread is more accurate. That bread, however, just didn’t fill me up. I guess I’ll just leave and grab some food from that Irish place just down the street. What was the name of it again?

Oh yes, McDonald’s!

Great Irish Restaurant!

 

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