"Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow."
I arrived at a gentleman's brisk pace by 8pm but I could not bare to part with this lavish world of Peruvian dining until well after its closing time. "How could one manage that, Infant Jones?" Well I'll lay it on nice and thick for you, reader. After entering the door I announced my presence by sternly yelling my last name. After a moment of hesitation, the hostess saw in my gaze that I was there for one thing and one thing only. Like a tour guide to my own desires she led me to the booth I reserved for myself. I took off my cardigan and cozied up in the booth like a baby still in the womb, overwhelmed by the beauty of my surroundings. I was a week over due, still depending on my mother's juices for sustenance but my mother was the restaurant and her juices were the guacamole. As I kicked back another glass of Dr. Pepper, the cold glass biting my lips like a playful muse, I could not help but set my gaze upon the menu. I could feel the gluttony in me tearing away at my inhibitions. I was overcome with a ravenous hunger like I was Dan Schneider at a playground (classy joke). A hunger that I knew in my heart of hearts could not be sated by anything but Chaufa de Pollo. Noticing my vicious gaze a waitress sauntered over as if god himself had sent one of his angels to deliver me. "Hello sir, are we about ready to order?" she said to me in a hushed voice, almost a gentle whisper. "Why did she whisper it, Infant?" Well simply put, reader, it was to make me listen. Immediately I fell prey to the siren's song and gave in to my carne asada desires. "I'll take the Chaufa de Pollo and the Arroz con Mariscos." I bellowed like a vicious he-beast. Notice my word choice, reader? I said I'll take. I didn't say I'd like, or I'll have, no. I will take. I am a man and I will take what I have earned. What my warrior's blood entitles me to. What I BELIEVE in. And the only thing I believed in then was chicken fried rice. My religion was Peruvian seafood medley and my place of worship was a tall, icy tankard of Dr. Pepper's sweet syrup. The beast within me from seeing a happy couple at the table due West from me subsided the moment my food was delivered to my table. Octopus, mussles, clams, black tiger shrimp, I thought I was ordering a dish but what I received was a monument. A series of marble pillars built in reverence of delicious food, nestled high atop Mount Olympus. With the amount of fresh sea life I was surrounded by all I needed was a camera and a gentle synth track playing in the background to pass for Jacques Cousteau. As I reached the end of my meal I could feel my phone gently massaging my leg, notifying me of a message received like a small messenger pigeon cooing in my pocket. The beacons were lit. Gondor was calling for aid. To my great joy it was my lovely mother, but that joy quickly turned to ash in my mouth. After reading the wall of text that can be accurately summed up as "I wish you weren't so lonely", I began to type my response to assure her my detachment from females is perfectly healthy for a 20 year old so I could continue my meal. In the small window of time I spent composing my message the waitress had taken the remainder of my dish away from the table and in place of it was a small, leather bound pad and a check. Immediately I was filled with unbound fury. I was a fire elemental, a champion of the venerable Fire Lord Ragnaros and my orders were to eat Peruvian food until medical intervention would be necessary. And my waitress deprived me of my opportunity to do my lord's bidding. The staff could not respect my honor and physically escorted me off the property after I let out a war cry that can only be compared to Captain Kirk's yelling in Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan. I stumbled to my '93 Geo Metro, choking back tears as my hunger subsided only to be replaced with a great, dark void. So I waited. Three hours, four hours. I watched the minutes tick away patiently as one by one the waiting staff, the manager, the busboys, and finally the kitchen staff left their posts. Upon their departure I crept to the back of restaurant, climbed atop their dumpster now piled high with half eaten appetizers, and down the ventilation shaft. Like a lioness on the hunt, eager to feed her cubs I skulked towards the kitchen door. Quiet was my approach but loud and great was my entrance into the bastion of South American food and drink. And it is there I stayed, the remaining hours of twilight spent feasting upon all the delectable, succulent morsels I could lay my thick baby hands on. And I haven't left yet. I'm still here. Watching. Waiting. Biding my time for the next night. Don't look up.
Quiero que miran. Quiero que sientan miedo. Voy a tener mi comida o voy a tener sus cabezas . Soy un señor de lodos . Un señor lodos cerdo.
- Infant Jones, food review read more