Monday, December 17, 2012

Curly Pubes... A Horrible Hostess Cake???



After pummeling away at a novel I’m currently writing (makes me sound like a blow hard, I know), I decided to take a break and stare out the window at the people slipping in the snow smitten streets below. I looked down at the smoky sausage stand smoldering links and charging poor SOB’s five bucks after sliding the tube of meat between two buns and handing it to them with a seedy smile. My mouth was watering just thinking about it or maybe I just puked a little in my mouth. Either way I knew I was hungry and it was time for me to burn a little energy finding some food and maybe cutting up a street walker if I had enough time. Luckily for me an old friend gave me a buzz and asked if I wanted to try a new place. I said, you’re timing couldn’t be more perfect! Too bad I couldn’t convince him to pick up a set a meat curtains along the way. It would have been a kill two birds with one stone moment. But lady luck was not on my side... at least not at that instance.


Now I should let you know beforehand that my good friend wanted to remain nameless, because someone he knew, I’ll refer to the person my friend knows as a carpenter, said not to support this fucking shit sty, because the owners are basically assholes, with a constant anal leakage problem, and they love to chug cocks on the weekends while watching Elmo get fisted by an accused pedophile! By the way, I paraphrased just a bit, but not by too much. Also, I don’t believe the carpenter or his group of wood working bandits one bit! Lord knows the only thing you can see while chugging cock is a dark canvas of extremely curly pubes (curly pubes sounds like a horrible hostess cake). However, what does intrigue me is that although my friend was asked not to support such a business, the food was so good by his account that he felt a need to mainline a burger from time to time just to keep the monkey off his back. So I agreed not to mention his name, and gave him the fitting pseudonym Black Belt James. Only because he has an extremely picked afro, a somewhat dark complexion, and a lot of fucking attitude he likes to refer to as confidence for the ladies.




So off we went in his crime fighting mobile of pain headed due west. The name of the place, EJ’s Garden Bistro, located in Spokane’s Browne’s Addition and advertized as the “Historic home turned cozy neighborhood bistro.” On the way, we talked a bit about my crime fighting training or lack thereof, meaning why haven’t I been lurking in the darkest corners of the Spokane shadows covered in my state of the art metallic outer wear, aka trashcan lids and chicken wire, with two lungs filled with KIAI when the shit hits the fan? Simply put, I pulled a muscle in my lower back. He told me it sucks being old and his back hurt from time to time too and completely understood. I told him that I needed to get a new mattress, because my current one had more lumps than a Navy cock doing three tours in Bangkok. Who ever invented the pillow top mattress should be fisted by Shaquille O’Neal wearing a four finger ring that spells Kazaam in 100 karat worth of diamonds!!! The fact is that most guys prefer a firm mattress more than the softest version with giant tampons stitched onto each side. And if anything, as a guy the only thing soft I like to nestle my head in is a pair of milk filled tits, just in case I get thirsty at night. Now if pillow top mattresses were replaced with, as Black Belt James coined, titty top mattresses then a lot less women would be woken up in the middle of the night with a tip of a cock pressed into their spines causing a moment of paralysis. The truth is this silicon filled mattress would have us sleeping comfortably on our stomachs with the joy of having our shafts and sacks constantly titty fucked!


We finally arrived at our destination and climbed up the ramp of this “historic home” in Browne’s. Black Belt James pointed out the cleanly decorated porch with tables that wrapped itself around half of the home. I took in the sight along with the small fire pit, the stone covered patio, and the lit snow covered garland draped over the rails of the deck. We entered through the single door, chased up a set of stairs to the second level, and stumbled into a private party celebrating who knows what. So Black Belt James and I quickly made our way to the bar and planted our asses in a couple of lonely stools. The bartender without missing a beat quickly asked if we’d like a drink and handed us a couple of menus. Black Belt James, after a happy and extremely solid KIAI, suggested I should try either the 50/50 Burger, priced at 11 bucks, or the Mediterranean Chicken Ciabatta, which squawks in at 10 bucks. The obvious choice for me was a medium rare 50/50 with a side of house potatoes rather than the other options (house salad or soup). Black Belt James smiled stating, “I can dig it brotha”, right before ordering the Chicken Ciabatta and also opting for the house potatoes! As he so elegantly puts it, the potatoes are so good they taste like they’ve been “touched by angels”. It’s like these angel’s jerked off a spud producing bit sized droplets of gold potatoey spunk that would be considered the new forbidden fruit or vegetable in this case. Yes, they were pretty damn good. A perfect flash fried shell protecting a soft potato zygote that does nothing but beg to be eaten.


Let’s talk burgers... I usually order a steak, or any meat product in this town, one level of cooked less than I actually want it. For instance if I ordered a Filet Mignon then I would ask, can you please just give it a very quick sear leaving the middle cold and raw. What I get in return is a perfectly rare piece of beef, that’s seared well on the outside and cuddly warm as well as deep pink on the inside (same description for a branded vagina). If I want something medium rare, I order rare, If I want something medium, such as in a fatty rib-eye, I order it medium rare. But I’d never take any cut of beef and order it well. That would be the equivalent of tying a piece of beef to the bottom of a sandle strapped to a Kenyan running a marathon in his hometown between rusted tin huts cooking under the African sun. But if you really want to know what kind of cook, most likely sporting a skull tattoo underlined with cross knives instead of bones and burning his weeping inner child with a constant stream of Marlboros, is gleaming the grill, order a cut a beef and see if it arrives as you’ve requested. In this case, YES it did! I ordered it medium rare and it came out medium rare. And it was pretty freaking good too. I should mention, while I’m feverishly masturbating to the Hamburglar, that this beef and lamb patty’s wingman is a slice of smoked cheddar which I’d like to think was probably queefed on by a devilish vixen to capture that sexy smoky smell. Also standard on the burger are tomatoes, onions, a spring mix of greens, and a sweet paprika sauce, all of which was pressed between two titty top mattresses also known as a pretzel bun. I wish I could say something horrible about the burger or potatoes for that matter, especially knowing what kind of people run the place (according to a rogue carpenter), but I can’t cause it was that fucking good.


Wait a cock blocking second... there was one thing that really bothered me. The god damn plates!  You see they serve this blissfully grilled piece of flesh on one of grandma’s plates scoured from her best china. You’re probably thinking, what’s wrong with that? I think a burger like this deserves a proper thrown such as block of lacquered mahogany versus a plate littered with roses and green spaghetti like vines. I feel as though a vegan got the last laugh by puking on my plate right before placing my burger on his stomach’s contents’ masterpiece. The garland was better left outside on the railing of the rap around porch than raked over my porcelain plate like a thick green leafy bowel movement run through a sausage grinder! Other than that, I found the food to be fantastic and the place to be, again as they described, a “cozy neighborhood bistro.” And as for the carpenter who said the owners are assholes, well let’s just say even if they are (which I really, really doubt), they get a free pass from this guy and my buddy the great Black Belt James!




EJ's Garden Bistro
1928 W Pacific Ave
Spokane, WA 99201
(509) 443-3544
EJ's Garden Bistro on Urbanspoon

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