Wanna See Some Pics of What I'm Eating Right this Second?

We, here at HIYLH, always used to be annoyed by people whipping out camera phones at restaurants, snapping photos of their haricot verts, and posting the images on the Internet so that their friends and Linkedin connections could be enthralled in real time by the stunning displays of virtual green beans. For the longest time (this is just a figure of speech; the longest time is actually the eta of the D Train), we could not understand why this insipid practice was so popular amongst the madding crowd of a certain age. 

Even more mysterious to us was why anyone could care less what somebody else was eating while dining out last week, or why they would bother breathlessly to peruse a slideshow about it, especially if the photographer were not standing right there next to them, peering giddily over their shoulder, on the verge of crying a river lest the audience (presumably with nothing better to do with his or her life) pretend that studying a digitized reproduction of some half-eaten entre was the most fascinating thing to come along since daylight savings time was pushed up a few weeks.

When we consulted the dictionary, we half-expected this phenomenon to be cited as one of the many examples of the word “stupid.”  We were, notably, unable to test this theory, as we do not consult dictionaries, preferring, instead, to just go with our instinct on spellings. And Definitions.  And facts. Etc.

We bucked the trend as long as we could. (Taking pictures of our food, that is, not consulting dictionaries.  We’re still proudly bucking that trend).

But when it became evident that we would no loner be able to escape the taunts of our peers, accusing us of harboring luddite-sensibilities and worse, we went from bucking to buckling. Accordingly, now whenever we frequent the many victuallers scattered hither and yon throughout the shire, we come equipped with a fully-charged device, a keen eye, and the perspective of a seasoned auteur, prepared to record the day’s repast for posterity, and also to give the Library of Congress reassurance that it won’t run out of stuff to archive.

Will we admit to a smidgen of guilty pleasure in succumbing to this moronic pastime? Absolutely not!  We hate it. We do it only as a public service, and only grudgingly. If it were up to us, we would only do take-out from the Hunan Kosher Happy Fun Time Eating Place, and what we scarfed down would be nobody’s business but our own. But as we are programmed by our societal caste to conduct ourselves in the spirit of noblesse oblige (not given over to wasting time confirming the definitions of haughty-sounding phrases by cracking open a dictionary, as you will recall, we are guessing that this term applies to us), we do our duty, and we do so without complaint.  Kvetching a bit, but without complaint.

The recent results of our mix of gastronomic and photographic escapades are offered below free of charge. We will caution you, Dear Reader (we trust you are the only reader) just this once, so pay attention: Do not gaze overlong at these images. Their hypnotic qualities have the power to transport you to realms best left to the terrifying recesses of the subconscious. Should you be foolish enough not to heed this warning, we cannot be responsible for the sad results.  

The cornbeefed omelette at Grumpy's Breakfast Nook is to stub your toe for. Not that great, but the coffee refills are free if you ask 26 times. As you can tell from this shot, the portions are huge. Looks scrumptious, no?

Elegance is the catchword at Chez Che's. The soft lighting in the dining room nicely contrasts with the posters of Che Guevara plastered all over the walls. It's a kind of culinary marriage of socialism and capitalism.  Here, for example, is a spartan yet tasty arrangement of Walnuts One Way (basically raw nuts dumped on a plate), accompanied by a stunning Riesling.

Soupçon was featuring a melted bullion cube the day we visited. I think it was beef.  But it might have been chicken.  Or fish.  Not really sure if truth be told.  But doesn't it look good?

At Claudio's Jiggy Fish, they take presentation very seriously. The caviar in this Fish Eggs and Egg Eggs dish had turned by the time it reached our table, but the artistic design of a sturgeon choking on an egg in the center was quite ingenious and well worth preserving with the use of an iPad, nerdiness be damned!

The lighting at Daffy's is crappy. And so is the duck.

Hopefully, the masterful treatment of the baked, stuffed scrod  at the tiny purveyor of the day's catch, Any Port in a Storm, is readily evident from this scene.  The fish is totally skinned. Then the skin is glazed and stuffed inside.  Then the whole thing is baked.  Then the skin is taken out of the interior of the fish and glued back on the outside.  Then the whole thing is fried.  Then the skin is taken off and discarded. Then the fish is sprinkled with almond flakes, or whatever happens to be lying around. Then the whole thing is served on a plate together with a napkin, a plate, a fork, and a knife. Then the whole thing is eaten.  Then the bill comes.  Amazing experience.  Also, expensive.

At Mario's, photography in the dining room is strictly prohibited. We were tossed out into the snow for violating the rule.  As the maître d’ was shoving us out the door, we happened to snap this shot of the headless statue out front.  The legend at the base reads:  "Pincus 'Ming' Mandelbaum, Victoria et Gloria, eh!" We have no idea what it means.

The fare at the Cat House verges on the inedible.  We know a certain someone who refuses to eat it no matter how many times "florentine" is used in the name of the dish. There are no English words that can adequately describe the chazzerai they foisted on us the day we came. The big joke there is that they have daily "specials," but it's the same thing every single day.  No wonder the patrons are sick of it.

This is our favorite picture. It really captures the flavor of the slow-roasted brew ladled with care into wax-coated paper cups by the crotchety retirees at Ye Olde Hoity Toity Cafe Franchise. Look at the size of that plastic lid! Big enough for 4 or 5 Cups On the Run (TM). Can't you just smell the aroma? Doesn't it make you want to get some this instant?  You won't have to go far. There's a YOHTC on practically every corner.  But please don't take pictures of the products there.  How would it be  if everybody did it?

This is Your Blog on Drugs

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was known to power through marathon writing binges after gorging on bangers and mash washed down with opium and morphine. Oscar Wilde would often sit up all night drinking absinthe, hallucinate, and then write plays like “The Importance of Being Ernest.” (Many of his fans were disappointed upon learning that the film was nothing like the Cliff Notes). Alan Ginsburg used marijuana and nitrous oxide to expand his horizons and induce poetic visions when kishke and chicken soup weren’t up to the task. Carlos Castaneda transformed himself from nebbish to nebbishly chic with the aide of peyote and a mysterious medicine man (who no one else ever saw) inspiring the counter-culture hit: "The Teachings of Don Juan." Anais Nin liked reading Aldous Huxley, but not as much as she liked dropping acid, which, she said, allowed her to “understand the infinite.”

     We here at Honk if you Like Honking would like to understand the infinite. Unfortunately, as many of you know, we can’t even understand the tilde (~) key. This seems unfair, as we’re certain that, just as in days of old (or, at least, middle age), serious artists are still sprucing up their creative expression with performance-enhancing hallucinogens. We thought we might level the playing field by trying our hand at a little shamanism of our own.  Strictly for the good of the craft, you understand.

     We scrounged around the HIYLH offices, and we couldn’t find hide nor hair of LSD. Ditto Opium. We even looked under the office cat to see if he was sitting on any peyote. He was not. We pulled the throw out from under him, and he went flying up in the air angrily, paws akimbo, claws out, -- just long enough for us to check between the cracks in the cushions to see if any morphine had slipped down under there. Not a smidgen. This was a disappointment albeit, a minor setback, as we have always been willing to persevere for the benefit of elite intellectual pursuits long past the time that persons of inferior stamina would have given up and succumbed to the charms of the Cooking Channel. We pressed on, because we could have sworn that we had once seen some absinthe in the wood shed. We were wrong.  But at least now we know where the pliers are. 

     Over time, we managed to overcome the aforementioned obstacles. We found alternate substances appropriate for our foray into the realm of substance-inspired literary creation. How? We won’t bore you with the details.  We’ve already done that for the last three paragraphs.  Instead, we take you directly to the results.

Written Under the Influence of Vicks Vapo-Rub

There are certain places where you should not put Vicks Vapo-Rub.

Do I have to draw you a picture?

Written under the Influence of Antacid/Calcium Supplement (FreshMint)

Hour 1

Why should “FRESHMINT” be one word?

Do they think we won’t notice if it’s in ALL CAPS?

The “fresh” part seems kind of redundant.

It’s not like if they just said “mint” we might worry that it had gone bad because they had neglected to put the “fresh” in there.  Nobody reads the word “mint” on a bottle and thinks “Hmmm.  I wonder if it’s gone bad.” 

I thought I heard something. Are these walls talking? It sounds like “Feed me. Feed me.” Wow!  What’s in this stuff, anyway?  I’m hallucinegating now for sure!

Hour 2

I’ve been staring at this bottle for 2 hours. I just now realized that if I peel the label back, there’s a coupon underneath for $1.00 off towards the next purchase of FRESHMINT!  But wait!  What’s this!? “Coupon may not be bought, transferred, or sold!” There’s got to be a way around this.  It sounds like an unreasonable restraint of trade. Maybe there’s a black market in FRESHMINT coupons. I wish I had a guy I could call.

Wait a minute!  “Black market!?” I don’t do that sort of thing! Is this the antacid talking?

Hour 3

These pills aren’t half bad.

I could definitely survive in a lifeboat with these for a couple of weeks, at least if I had to. After a while, the chalkiness kind of grows on you. It’s an acquired taste.

Written under the Influence of Antihistamine (Nighttime/Drowsy)

My head feels as though someone has stuffed cotton balls between my ears (i.e. in my head). I have the sensation of being here and being not here at the same time.  I have the urge to operate heavy machinery or a motor vehicle, but something tells me I shouldn’t. I hear the walls talking, again. They are saying “Feed me. Feed Me.  I’m bored, and I just gotta knock some glass thing off the counter and break it or I will go insane!” What could this mean?

          In this altered state, I have the illusion of the cat ripping the shit out of the back of the armchair by the window. I want to strangle him at this moment, and, perhaps, operate a motor vehicle or heavy machinery. Instead, I just sit here, disempowered by the drug. All the while, from someplace (I don’t know where), I hear the eerie refrain:  “Feed me!  Feed me!”

           My eyelids are getting heavy.  They should restrict their caloric intake or try the Paleo diet.

Post-Script Upon Coming Out of the Antihistamine-Induced Trance

          What a wild night! How much time has gone by? It’s unreal. I have virtually no recollection of anything. I’m like Ray Milland in “The Lost Weekend.”

          I notice that the back of the armchair has been torn to shreds, as though it had been clawed to death by a wild beast!  How could this have happened?  What other strange goings-on have transpired during my vacation from the here and now?

Written under the Influence of Expired Baby Aspirin

     The Infinite paid me a midnight visit while I was sitting in the breakfast nook thinking about having a pop tart.

       “What have you got to eat?” said the Infinite without even moving its lips.

       “Nothing,” I replied.

       “Don’t lie to me!” admonished the Infinite.  I can see right through your refrigerator door.”

       “Oh, alright,” I complained.  “Why don’t you help yourself to a Puddin’ Pop?”

       “I’d rather have the leftover arugula,” insisted the Infinite.

       “But it’s gone bad!” I protested.

       “Oh that doesn’t matter,” said the Infinite.  “It’s all good.”

       Really?  Really? Leftover bad arugula over a Puddin’ Pop?

       I’ll never understand the Infinite.