Halloween Treat!

Tonight I offer a special Halloween Treat: a story written especially for you and by you.

Here's the blueprint.

I'll start off with a few lines to set the stage. Then you add to the story in the Comments Section. Later, I'll collect the whole thing and post it in one piece.

So, let's get started! Join in the fun and make your mark in blog history!

A Halloween Story

It was a dark and stormy night. The moon played hide-and-seek behind a veil of dark clouds. A wolf howled a mournful lament in the distance.

The Major entered the study. It was dark. The storm has interrupted the power and all the lights in the mansion were off. The Major stuck a match and lit a hurricane lamp he kept in his sea chest for just such emergencies. As the light grew beyond a flicker the Major looked down and gasped!

"The bastards! They've killed Kenny!"

And there in a slowly spreading pool of tapioca pudding lay Kenny. Face down and quite dead.

Your turn.

Bleu Tooth

“Hey, whatup?”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The car.”

“You shouldn’t be calling from the car. We talked about this and you need both hands on the wheel.”

“No prob! I’ve got the Bluetooth thingie working. Hands free! Look – no hands.”

Honnnnkkkkkkk!! “Sorrrrrryyyyyyy!!”

“I don’t want to look and Bluetooth or not you need to pay attention to driving and not be making frivolous phone calls.”

“It’s not frivolous. It’s a test. I don’t know how this button thing works but after a few tries I got it going. Not bad for not reading the manual. One click to call, two clicks to hang up, or is it the other way around?”

“Yeah, well you don’t have anything to say so call me when you do.”

>click<

Well, thank YOU, I thought. I had been fooling around with this Bluetooth cell phone earpiece for a couple of days and only just got it working. I was mighty proud of my technical achievement and wanted to share, but I guess technical expertise like mine can only be appreciated by a few.

About that time a blue Volvo cut me off by veering into the left lane.

Cabbage, I thought. I swear in French when I’m driving. Not real French because my real ability to speak French is très pauvres.

But, I love to swear in faux French, especially while driving. It gives me that, je ne sais pas ce qui, feeling of superiority. I say things in a French accent which makes the swearing respectable. That’s my story at least. Inspector Clouseau would be proud.

In an surprising turn of events the blue Volvo was cut off by another blue Volvo. Sacre bleu! Literally! Not only did this new Volvo driver cut the previous Volvo driver off, he cut me off, too!

You are a leetle cab-AZGHE! A mo-SQUITO du jour. Stu-PEED golf ball. Oui, you are a golf-BALL!

It’s important to get the em-PHA-sis on the right syl-LA-ble when swearing in faux Francais.

You pitiful cab-BAGE, I continued, bite my fing-GER, you witless EEL! I breek wind in your di-RECT-shun. Oui? You Fange-du-PU-terre! You Bichon de Bichon! You Strawberry Fraise! Oui, get out of my way. Allez, allez!

And, soon enough, the Volvos were on their way and so was I. Ah, such entertainment. Where would we be without Volvo drivers? A barren, boring landscape of driving monotony.

Later that day I arrived home and was confronted with this report.

“I had the most remarkable phone call today just after you hung up.”

“Oh, do tell,” I said taking the Bluetooth earpiece off my head and plugging it into the charger.

“Well, I had an obscene phone call!”

“Really?”

“Yes, and it was all in French. It went on and on about Volvos and bichon frieses and cabbages. It was so weird!.”

I paused. “Those Volvos, what color where they?”

“Blue. Definitely blue. The Frenchman went on and on about blue Volvos and cabbages and strawberry bichon frieses. It was totally weird!”

“Ah, yes, well, er, these things happen. I suppose. Mad Frenchmen, I mean, what’s next? Incensed Italians? Angry Argentineans?”

While I was muttering I made my way to the junk drawer in the kitchen and started poking around.

“What are you looking for?”

“Uh, the Bluetooth earpiece manual. I, uh, wanted to check on a few things. You know, to verify this and that buttonwise, so to speak.”

My wife looked at me knowingly and turning to leave the room said, “Oui, je comprends parfaitement.”

Baaad News

I wish I could make up stuff like this, but there is baaad news from England.

It appears that during a serious and somber city council meeting discussing a permit to park a trailer on a farm which raises exotic horses and sheep, a councilman surreptitiously emitted “baa-ing” noises disrupting the proceedings. Possibly the first ever Sheep Heckling.

Outraged, the council launched an enquiry and after a year and many thousands of dollars (pounds) later…well, read for yourself from The Telegraph.co.uk:

It has taken more than 12 months and cost about £10,000 but a council is finally on the verge of discovering the identity of a man who kept saying "baa" during a planning meeting.

After a wide-ranging investigation, Havering council, based in Romford, Essex, has prepared a 300-page report, according to the Romford Recorder newspaper.

Unfortunately, the downside is that the prime suspect is no longer a councillor and is, therefore, beyond the scope of any punishment that it might want to mete out.

The incident has it roots in a planning meeting in September last year when an application was being heard to put a mobile home on a farm housing rare breeds of horses and sheep.

The solemnity of the debate was, apparently, interrupted by a male councillor making unhelpful "baa-ing" noises.

This so enraged Coun Jeff Tucker, who represents the area where the farm is, that he reported the incident to the Standards Board for England which, in turn, referred it back to Havering council for investigation.

Now, after a probe estimated to have cost £10,000 in staff time, the list of suspects has been narrowed down to four, who will be quizzed by the standards hearings sub-committee in November.

The perpetrator should come forward and confess, although he’s probably feeling sheepish about the whole matter. This issue has really served to knit the community together, though. Ever mindful, this Council, you’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to pull the wool over their eyes.

And, finally, in the words of the Bard from Othello, I think, where the shepherd boy croons

“I may look at other sheep but I’ll always be in love with ewe.”

Well Done, Chris!

Where's Aldo?

OK, it's confession time. Confession Time for Billy.

Here it is. Deep breath. Exhale. One, two, three...

I read Mary Worth.

There, I said it. Surprisingly, I don't feel all that liberated, after all, Mary Worth is just a comic strip. But, you have to ask yourself, why would anyone read Mary Worth?

Mary Worth is a soap opera comic; an endless saga of personal minutiae appealing to nobody, really. “Mary bakes a casserole” is an exciting story line. “Mary considers stripes or polka dots” is more typical. (Finally, after 6 weeks of daily panels Mary selects “stripes”)

To say that Mary Worth is “slow moving” is to insult the very concept of slow-moving. Snails should be insulted; they are sprinters by comparison. Sloths should be insulted; zipping along the jungle canopy. Plate tectonics should be insulted; the Himalayas rose before that casserole got out of the oven. Why, I’ve seen days go by with Mary trying to raise an eyebrow. Monday it’s eye level. Tuesday there’s a bit of an arch, but it could be a hair on the newspaper. Wednesday, definitely it’s moving up. Thursday it looks more like a C and less like a parenthesis.

So it goes in the glacial world of Mary Worth. And that necklace. That damned pearl necklace. Does she ever take off that freaking pearl necklace?

The thought percolating in your mind right now should be, “Are you insane?”

Well, yes and no. You see I can’t shake this feeling that somehow, someway Mary Worth will get better. Mary will go on a road trip. Mary will party with frat boys. Mary will get a tattoo. Mary will get a job with an escort agency. Mary will cut her hair and dress like Grace Jones. Mary will run a marathon. Mary will get her freak on and party down! Yeah, baby!

Call me crazy. Call me an optimist. But, I keep checking up on Mary hoping that I don’t miss that magical moment when she moves ahead a hundred million years into our time! Sock it to me, Mary!

Alas, not the case.

Mary Cooks a Casserole took something like 3 years to produce. Mary does Dallas just isn’t gonna happen. What’s an optimist to do? It doesn’t look good.

Enters Aldo. Aldo Kelrast.

Totally oblivious to the obvious, Kelrast is an anagram of “stalker.” (I read that today on CNN. Duh)

Yes, Aldo has Mary Worth in his sights and is stalking her! What? A stalker in “Mary Worth” where each stalking step could take a year of daily panels?

But, no, the stalker episode moved at light speed. Light speed, indeed. Within a few weeks, yes, a few weeks, Aldo had gone from chance introduction to pest to stalker to…

To…

To…

Dead!

What? Dead? Death in “Mary Worth?” Yes, and in less time than the heat death of the Universe. Shock! Horror!

Spurned by Mary and confronted by her weird friends Aldo took his friend Johnny Walker for a ride and plunged over a cliff onto the rocks below, thus ending the story line a good ten thousand years before it should have naturally.

Whew.

I’m still in shock. If death can happen in “Mary Worth” so quickly, what does that portend for the rest of us? It’s a serious consideration. Death in “Mary Worth” changes the rules. Oh, the humanity.

But, more importantly, what about the casserole that’s still in the oven? Will it be overcooked? Will Dr. Jeff return from Tahiti having quite possibly encountered bronzed, nubile young women to confront Mary who has seen better days, like, 300 years ago?

A rapid story line followed by a death in “Mary Worth” is a serious disturbance in the Comic Force whose repercussions have yet to be felt.

Don’t fret, though. I and many others who sacrifice their intelligence daily reading “Mary Worth” will remain on the front line, ever vigilant.

We won’t let you down.

Not Eggplant

Earlier...

What's for dinner?

I'm going to experiement with aubergine.

Sounds good. I'm hungry enough to eat anything so long as it's not eggplant!

Right, not eggplant.

Later...

The film: The Food Channel presents - Kill Iron Chef Bill 2

Director: Quince Tomatillo

Scene 1: Dialog between Chef Bill and his down-and-out brother Budd.

Budd: You mean to tell me she cut through 88 aubergines before she got to O-Ren?

Bill: They all fell under her Hanzo santoku chef's knife. And, there weren't 88. They just called themselves the Crazy 88 Aubergines.

Budd: How come?

Bill: I dunno. They were just eggplants. Maybe they thought it sounded cool.

Budd: She got herself a Hanzo knife? I thought he swore a blood oath not to make another knife.

Bill: Apparently, he has broken it. She has the knife and she's coming here to turn you into a gumbo. You haven't by any chance kept up with your sauces and seasonings?

Budd: Naw, I gave that up a long time ago. My hollandaise is a separated mess and my bechamel is as runny as a four-year old's nose.

Bill: Budd, you have to realize she's coming here to defeat you and I have no doubt that she will win. She will be the Iron Chef.

Budd: I don't dodge guilt. I pay my dues. Bill, I'm a short order cook in a corporate cafeteria. If she wants to start a bake-off all she has to do is come down here and mix some batter and we'll be in a bake-off.

Budd: That woman deserves her revenge. And, and we deserve to lose. Don't we? Ha, then again, so does she!

And finally...the recipe

Here's the blueprint:

1 large eggplant, skinned and sliced
1 box Pomi brand chopped tomatoes
1 onion
1 ball fresh mozzarella
half pint whipping cream
two eggs

Pour enough chopped tomatoes in a casserole dish to cover the bottom. Brown the eggplant slices. I use Olive Oil Pam spray and a high heat. Place the slices in the casserole. Saute sliced onion and pour on top of eggplant. Cover with remaining chopped tomatoes. Season with black pepper, salt and garlic powder. Slice the cheese into quarter inch discs and arrange on top. Cover in foil and bake for 45 min to an hour at 350.

Remove from oven, whisk cream and eggs together, pour mixture over casserole, return to oven uncovered for 30 minutes.

Serve with freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

A word about food photography. Without the proper lighting and using a point-and-shoot digital camera like mine your food will come out looking flat and yellow.

Cooked to a golden perfection is what I would have liked this picture to convey. There is hope. Check out Benjamin Christie's site on food photography.

Number One Hit

Twelve Two Two Fondue currently has the dubious honor of being the Number One Hit for the Google search of:

"buzzard recipes"

Ah, fame.

Rent-A-Snake

I need to find a rent-a-snake company.

I need a snake, a big snake, but I don't want to buy a snake. I don't have anything against snakes, in fact, I like snakes, not that I ever had one as a pet, or assassin, or whatever. Hmmm.

A friend of mine had a bull snake and he was cool, the snake. Didn't move much, but if you held a live mouse over his head the snake would flick his tongue in and out to an obscene degree. Drop the mouse and it would be Adios Mousie.

I always felt bad about my friend feeding mice to his snake because mice didn't bark. Really, when's the last time you heard a mouse bark? Like, never? A mouse might squeek if you step on it or feed it to a snake. (Ah, I temporarily forgot that part of the story.) But, a mouse never barks. Especially at night.

There you have it. Snakes eat quiet, hardly ever squeeking mice, and loud, obnoxious barking-all-night dogs go Scott Free!

It's unfair, I tell you. The mice are getting eaten for being quiet and the miserable, loud, rat-fink, beady-eyed neighbor dogs can bark, bark, bark, bark, bark all night for nothing. Bark all night and your chicks for free.

Stupid little dog, too. Short with a funny tail. You'd think that a dog that ugly would take caution to draw attention to itself, but Noooooooooo. Little barky ugly dog has to bark and yap and howl all day and all night.

An ugly mouse would never do that.

I checked eBay and there's a good selection of pythons available but their descriptions are less than adequate for my purpose.

Nice python, loves kids. Er, no.

Divorced. Python must go. Loves kids. Er, no.

Fire sale. Black and tan python must go. Answers to the name "Smokey." Er, no.

What I'm looking for is something like this:

Vicious dog-hating python. Must go. Devoured mastiff. Loves kids. Hates barky dogs.

No, I would only own a snake of this sort for a deterrant. Far be it for me to let such a snake loose in my back yard or my neighbor's back yard where the loud, obnoxious, barky canine terror from Hell lives. Nor would I deprive my new family pet snake from food prior to letting him exercise through the fence to our neighbor's back yard. Especially late at night when little Barky is roaming around, barking, by the pool. Alone. In the dark.

Not I and do you want to know why?

Because I'm a dog person. Yes, it's twue.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

I hired a guy to trim my trees. Yeah, I'm a wimp. Something about climbing up a 25-foot ladder and sawing branches doesn't appeal to me anymore. Burned out, I guess.

Anyway, my tree trimming guy has a very cool tool: a chainsaw on the end of a pole!

Really, how cool is that?

The more I watch him whack off limbs and branches the more I think, "I gotta get me one of those!"

Dear Santa,

I've been good all year and what I really want is a chainsaw on the end of a long pole.

Sincerely yours,
Billy

p.s. I promise not to chase cats with it, not that the thought ever occurred to me.

Yeah, with a chainsaw on the end of a long pole I'd get some respect. Yes, I would.

Especially from cats.

Danny Boy

"Hello, this is Bill."

"Hey!"

"Hey, yourself!"

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Just chillin'. TGIF. Got some steaks to grill. Usual Friday stuff."

"Sounds good, sounds good. I'm about to get on the road."

"Yeah, I heard the traffic is all messed up. Good luck."

"I hear you, buddy, I hear you. Hey, hold those steaks, OK, I'll be at least an hour."

"Uh, yeah, I guess." *pause* "You're coming here for dinner?"

"Uh." *pause* *pause* "Well, that was the plan. I thought."

"Well, you know, I'm always the last one who hears about this stuff, but, no prob, I'll, uh, make a bigger salad or something."

*pause* *pause* *car noises*

"Uh, is this Dan?"

"No, this is Bill."

"Oh, sorry, Danny Boy, wrong number."

*click*

Canadian Bacon

A quick word about food in Canada:

Fantastic!

We ate at hotels, restaurants, cafes, lodges, pubs and bars and everything was well above average, even by Houston standards and that's saying a mouthful.

More later.

In the Wilderness

"I thought you said this hotel had wireless Internet? I'm not picking up a signal."

"Hang on, let me get the travel guide. Here, what's this say?"

"Cabins, restaurant, yak, yak, yak, in a wilderness setting."

"Wilderness? Not wireless?"

"It'll probably get dark here, too."

Attention Hotels!

Hotels of the World please heed!

Refrain from providing emerald-colored shampoo to guests:

Remember:

Shampoo - Amber
Mouthwash - Emerald

Thank you for your attention.

Calgary

Calgary! Clear, blue skies, warm and sunny. The locals tell us it's like this year round.

So, what kind of food would you expect in cattle country? Steaks? Ribs? Giant roasts? Yes, it's all here. But, for something a little different in downtown Calgary there's the Metropolitan Grill. Californian meets Mediterranean in Canada. An unexpected delight awaiting us for a late lunch.

Sidewalk tables afforded us a view of the endless parade of tourists, students and locals of all types. There was a lady carrying about 50 red and black balloons, young men on skateboards, and a pirate. What would Calgary be without a pirate, I say.

We started our lunch, appropriately, with a cheese and mushroom fondue served with garlic toast slices, accompanied by a local beer, Big Rock Honey Brown lager.

Then, going for something on the light side we opted for a "cioppino" of Prince Edward Island mussels, salmon, mahi mahi and shrimp in a lobster sauce orzo. The dish was garnished with cilantro and a sprinkling of dill.



We tossed into this mix a chicken salad because we couldn't resist the description: chicken and lots of other good stuff. And justified our decision by calling our meal an "early dinner."



Perfect weather, perfect food. An auspicious start to our discovery of Canada.

All the World's a Meme

Wouldya looky at that? I got tagged by Alien Ted
I’d only do this for you, Dr. J!

1. Three things that scare me:
Irrational people
Oceans
Running out of garlic powder

2. Three people that make me laugh:
Joe the Eon
Ron White
Claire

3. Three things I hate the most:
Abject stupidity
Bad drivers
Fennel

4. Three things I don't understand:
Cat psychology
How to be fluent in a foreign language
Baking cakes
(I was going to say “women” but in reflection they’re not supposed to be understood.)

5. Three things I'm doing right now:
Planning a trip
Emailing friends
Trying to dissuade the cat from chewing the power cord.

6. Three things I want to do before I die:
Be fluent in French
Write a book
Buy 1000 shares of the next AOL

7. Three things I can do:
Cook by instinct
Survive in the wilderness
Program a computer

8. Three ways to describe my personality:
Funny
Committed
Self-centered

9. Three things I can't do:
Sew
Watch TV
Refrain from making a smart-ass comment

10. Three things I think you should listen to:
Fleetwood Mac
Yourself
Your best friend

11. Three things you should never listen to:
People who offer unsolicited advice
Advertisers
The inner voice that says “One bowl of chocolate almond ice cream won’t hurt!”

12. Three things I'd like to learn:
Efficiency
Macromedia Flash programming
To play the guitar

13. Three favourite foods:
Anything Mexican, even fennel enchiladas
Shrimp
Hot chocolate souflee

14. Three beverages I drink regularly:
Coffee
Red wine
Water (ha ha, that’s a joke, son!)

15. Three shows I watched as a kid:
Twilight Zone
Outer Limits
Gunsmoke

16. Three people I'm tagging (to do this):
Bret who didn’t show up
Shane for the sauce. BBQ sauce, that is.
Pammer because she has nothing else to do

Writely or Wrongly

Tonight I experimented with a collaborative writing session. Using Writely (www.writely.com) a friend of mine and I collaborated on a story. So, this is Version 1. We're going to make some refinements to the rules and produce another unique piece soon.

This was a trial.

Here's the blueprint:

1. A mutual friend provided a seed sentence.
2. We each wrote a sentence in turn to add to the story.
3. Go to 2 until everybody gives up.

The idea was to write a story with several different styles mixed up. Version 1 had a few interesting twists and turns as we got into the project, but I'll provide an analysis of that later.

Meanwhile, here is Version 1 of Ganymede Dreams:

When he saw her rounding the corner he immediately nanocleaned the collard greens from between
his teeth. She had just returned from the colony on Ganymede, and he knew she would be looking for a man, a real man, not some android like last time.

He thought back to the "last time." Things were going swimmingly, until it started to rain. He accessed the network using his internal connection and entered a request for a little local sunshine. It wouldn't do to have her freeze.

As the weather magically cleared, she walked past him without so much as a glance in acknowledgement. He turned to watch her retreating figure. Heels. Legs. Skirt. Shirt. Hair tight in a bun with long steel looping pins. Weapons, obviously...the legs, not the pins.

Disappointed by the rebuff he pulled the InsulTek tighter around his neck. Even though the temperature was minus 270 degrees, it seemed to drop just a few more.

He shivered and sighed. His breath froze and dropped to the surface with a tinkle. He turned and strolled back into the bar where Chartreuse waited for him. In a bottle.

Chartreuse on the rocks with a splash of methane and a soft ginger cookie on the side. He swirled the green liquid, took a bite of the cookie and thought about home. Far away. A long time ago. A hot planet with a beach of sand. He felt the sand curl around his toes as he wiggled them deeper and deeper until the waves lapped at the bottom of his shorts and he felt one with the kelp.

He had never really experienced water, but he liked it. He liked the motion of it and the rapid change from hard to soft. He wrapped his legs in latex whenever he walked the beach.

The beach. She strolled down the beach. The distant sun hung over Jupiter like a dim pearl hung around the neck of a galactic Nubian princess with a huge, striped breast. Gazing at the stars she pondered the infinite, the wheeling of galaxies light years away, surrounding her in a slow waltz (as it was impossible to imagine galaxies doing the watusi which would really wreck the red shift) and, stirred by an almost religious feeling a single thought rose to the surface like a lotus blossom, frozen in liquid methane: Dork.

When Will It End?

Probably when I stop doing this stuff!

Although, there might be something to this...

You are a Black Coffee

At your best, you are: low maintenance, friendly, and adaptable At your worst, you are: cheap and angsty You drink coffee when: you can get your hands on it Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Who's Sorry Now?

Take that, Tyson Foods!

See the picture? What's it say? Pilgrim's Pride! Yeah! Two for one, too.

So, you're bottom line's going down, Tyson.

One may observe, whoa, dude chill, it's only chicken. Not quite. It's all the Tyson chicken truck and the Tyson chicken truck driver who played a game of chicken on I-10 this morning. He could have just kept his speed, you know, just kept his speed. Boogie along at 65 with that 18-wheeler full of chicken parts and he could have just kept his speed and everybody would have been happy.

But, no, Mr. Tyson Chicken Driver had to speed up, then slow down and basically block us all off the entrance ramp. Three of us trying to merge onto I-10 had to merge OFF of I-10 because Mr. Tyson Chicken Driver wanted to have some fun.

How's my driving?

Chicken S**T! (family blog)

Thank you, Mr. Tyson Chicken Driver, for making my meal choice easy tonight.

Pilgrim's Pride chicken, raised by Pilgrim's the founders of our great country. Lovely, well-groomed birds and well-mannered, too. Why, I'd be proud if my daughter came home with a Pilgrim's Pride chicken boyfriend, they're that good. Pilgrim's Pride, nice birds, courteous drivers; they'd never think to run you off the road. Nope, they just want you to have a special dining experience and so good for you, too. Not only are Pilgrim's Pride birds lean and nutritious, but their drivers won't raise your blood pressure by trying to squeeze you into a crash barrier.

Pilgrim's Pride. A considerate chicken.

Blog Fodder

These quizzes (quizzi?) make for cheap and easy blog fodder as if we need more ruffage in the Blogosphere.

This quiz tells you what kind of programming language you'd be. Like Harry Potter and the Sorting Hat I was hoping to be Pascal. Please, please be Pascal!

Alas, not to be. Better than Slytherian at least.




Which Programming Language are You?

Return to Luciano

Tomorrow, Friday, we head out to San Antonio to install the Boy at the University of Austin San Antonio, home of the Roadrunners. So, yea Longhorns! Yea, Jayhawks! Yea, Roadrunners! Boo, endowment funds! Boo, alumni associations!

The highlight of the trip will be a return to Luciano on the Strand located at Huebner and I-10.

I am cursed because I must order something different. Woe is me! The filet mignon was sooooooooooooo good I could easily choose it again. What are the odds that I hit the perfect meal at the perfect restaurant the first time?

The odds are good. In Houston, with so many restaurants, it's possible to specialize very narrowly such that you go to a particular restaurant for a particular dish.

Examples are:

Bayou City: Dale's Special renamed Brigantine
Pico's Mex-Tex: Pollo al Chipotle
Sushi Jin: Lunch combination with salmon; side order of ikura
Red Onion: Seafood enchiladas
Tay Do: Pho with spring rolls

Tomorrow I will put my faith in the hands of chef Jesse Perez and deviate from the filet mignon I sense I should order. The filet, however, becomes the benchmark as do all the dishes I've named. The meal will either be better or worse than the benchmark. It's all a matter of risk. How lucky do I feel, punk?

In my dream, chef Jesse Perez strides up to the table. He's wearing a serape, black hat and a cheroot is clenched between his teeth. He looks down at me, holds out a piece of meat and in a gravelly voice says:

This is a USDA Grade A specially selected, by me, personally, ideal, el perfecto, piece of meat which I will cook to perfection and serve to you in such a way that you will be dreaming about it for decades. Now, you can choose another item from the menu, all good and have an OK experience, or you can choose the filet and repeat the experience of a lifetime. The choice is yours. So, what's it going to be, punk? Filet or pot luck?

Will I awake from this dream?