Four Little Words That Lead to Hell

Everyone has their triggers.

You know what I mean. The words that set them off. Their “hot buttons” if you will.

llewcook

They can be simple.

“Stop!”

They can be dramatic.

“This is a stick-up!”

They can be a let-down.

“Have you met my husband?”

They can even lead to a host of other questions.

“I swear I thought she was eighteen…”

My own are quite simple. I cringe whenever I hear them.

“Hey, Mike! Try This.”

My blood runs both hot and cold when I hear that as they have led me to some of the best as well as some of the most horrifying culinary experiences ever.

“Abyssinian jerky?”

Oh, my God, that was incredible.

“Curried Beef in Ginger?”

URP! No wonder the Indians don’t eat beef.

“Honeyed marzipan in syrup?”

Better than the finest orgasm ever.

“Homemade sushi?”

OH, MY GOD! Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to use CATFISH in sushi? At least it could have been FRESH!?!?!

Then, there was the time someone made an offer I just couldn’t refuse.

“We are going to the hottest new restaurant in town, DIVA. Wanna go?”

DIVA was easily the chi-chi est place in town. They were so cutting edge they refused to have normal chairs. Instead of your standard seat, imagine you are lead to your table and the waiter unfurls a Versace lawn chair. I kid thee not.

Mere tables would not suffice for an establishment of this character. Giant spools scattered about the floor and covered with squares of wood covered with asphalt helped to remind everyone that this place was truly pushing the envelope.

We were seated by a maitre’d who insisted on showing us the hydroponically grown vegetables in the kitchen. It was impressive until you realized the only way to exit the kitchen was through the men’s room. The tour was impressive until we swung by the urinals on the way out and got the stinkeye from its denizens.

Finally seated, the restaurant was so loud that the waiter had to shout out the specials. I am not joking. He literally shouted in my ear.

That is when it happened.

“Hey, Mike. Try this!”

Wha?

“Hey, Mike! Try this!”

I stared into two identical spoons. The “sampling” tray has arrived from the avant-garde temple they called a kitchen and my friends both had different samples held out.

“What are they?” I asked.

” I couldn’t hear him because of the noise but I think he said this is artichoke parmesan pesto?” said Charles.

“And, this is supposed be creme brulee, I think.” said Chuck.

Both samples were the same shade of slightly yellowed cream.

“Try it!” said Charles.

“Come on!” said Chuck.

All of my hackles rose and I froze.

Tick…tick…tick.

Mentally flipping a coin, I grabbed the spoon from Charles and shoved it in my mouth.

Rainbows! Butterflies! Sunsets in Tuscany!

The parmesan pesto was simply heavenly. It was just the right balance of flavors to highlight the artichoke. Spices lit the candle to my soul.

And the second spoonful immediately put it out.

It wasn’t creme brulee.

It was raw lima bean paste mixed with lime juice and bloodwurst. Not only did it taste like the inside of a sneaker but it had the texture of a cat’s ass. Actually, it tasted more like the bottom of a cowboy’s boot after mucking out stalls. A sweaty, damp cowboy boot.

Truly.

Needless to say, I never intend on going back.

And, YELP! wondered why I gave them only 1/2 a star.

NOW LET’S DO IT RIGHT!

Ingredients:

Artichoke hearts, 1/2 lb.
Grated Parmesan, 4 ounces
Parsley, 2 ounces

Lemon, just one

Garlic, 2 ounces

Kosher salt, to taste

Fresh ground black pepper, to taste

Olive oil, to taste

Walnuts, 4 ounces

First, start by blanching the artichoke hearts in boiling water. set aside to cool.

Next, zest and juice the lemon.

Then, chop the walnuts and parsley.

Mix all ingredients except for Parmesan cheese and run through a food processor to finely chop.

When chopped, add the olive oil and chop finer.

Place in the freezer for two hours to thicken.

Remove from freezer, add Parmesan and run through the food processor again.

Serve over toasted bread.

Enjoy!

 

 

COPYRIGHT 2016 Micheal J. Hobbs

 

 

 

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