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

Searing Your John's Eye Sockets Shut

Nothing like feeling as though you've just seat belted yourself into a cinematic catastrophe such as Nu Image’s 1998 classically stupid “Armstrong”. At that particular moment James Weed of Newborn - Cascao Jiu-Jitsu had climbed into his small Scion compact, revved the four banger engine underneath the tin hood, and pulled out into traffic doing a complete u-turn across four lanes. And unfortunately for me I was riding bitch praying that I would be instantly killed if we happened to clip the frontend of another vehicle causing us to burst into a fiery explosion, in mid air of course, according to straight to video action flick physics. What the fuck were we running from?! Did James just rappel out of a helicopter, physically assault a sentry with hand to hand combat, and slide across a boardroom table gunning down a room full of generals with an AK-47 filled to the brim with simunition rounds?!

Nope, it was just business as usual behind the wheel with James. I distinctly remember him smiling as he weaved in and out of traffic, no seat belt of course with this dare devil, as I scanned the vehicle’s interior for a means of escape. A cigarette lighter maybe? Too bad for me “The Man” decided to remove the actual lighters from the interior of anything on wheels here in our fifty great states. So ladies and petite framed men who have chosen highway prostitution as a way of life, when hitchhiking across our glorious countryside just know that the lack of cigarette lighters will now hinder you considering you will no longer have the option of searing your John’s eye sockets shut before stabbing him in the neck with the corkscrew selection found on your Swiss army knife, and removing his swap meet bought Harley Davidson wallet from the chain fastened to his piss stained jeans.

After circling Spokane’s downtown blocks we finally found a slot less than a block away from our dining destination. It didn’t take us long to flick the meter’s bean with a hour worth of quarters to ward off any roving meter maid Nazi’s lurking in the immediate area. We cut through the alley that attaches Howard Street with Wall Street and were refreshingly embraced by the inviting arms of Beignets et le cafe. Moments later, after breathing in the cafe's delightfully modern décor, I was sitting on a dark metallic throne with a thick ivory slab squeezed between James and I just inside the large open bay door. Behind me, puked up by a projector onto a wall, were brief moments of life in Paris from the eyes from what I imagine is of a serial killer prowling for his next victim. Or maybe it’s just a traveling tourist? While disregarding the latter I quickly scanned the menu and was immediately aroused when my pupils fell upon the dish Boeuf Bourguignon. Believe you me when I say my arousal was a zipper bursting moment.

This dish was a originally a French peasant plate put together by taking inedible cuts of beef and threading strips of pork belly into the meat in order to marble it. Then the Frankenstein concoction was thrown into a pot of wine, which also tenderized the flesh, along with other belly filling vegetables, such as rotting potatoes and carrots, and aromatic herbs, such as anything found on the forest floor not soaked in urine or fecal matter, and creatively cooked down until it became a saliva inducing stew. This kind of ingenuity screams backdoor penetration between MacGyver and Wolfgang Puck, with the occasional reach around followed by a dirty Sanchez, that is until Puck shits out an intelligently inventive culinary offspring from his colon canon, along with an oversized spatula, a couple of hairless gerbils, and two Magnums, one pearl handled one condom, seeing on how Puck's shuttle docking partner in this imaginary scenario is MacGyver.

Moments later I received an exquisitely refined version of the previously described Boeuf Bourguignon. I inserted the prongs of my stainless steel fork into one of the many meaty cubes happily swimming around in pinot noir like a fully baked Phelps sitting pretty in a lounge style tube, floating aimlessly in a kiddy pool, holding a blunt in one hand while powering down a Subway sandwich in the other. I lifted up my fork visually fornicating my brain by the brilliant sight just before sinking my incisors into the slice of tender beef. I have no issues announcing that I climaxed, spiritually, after that first bite and continued to do so with every memorable bite there after.

Now you should know that Beignets offers fantastic fare that includes other house specials such as Chicken Marsala which is done with a lemon herb chicken and is accompanied by shallots as well as mushrooms which is all submerged in, you guessed it, Marsala wine, and salads, like their Caprese Salad which is topped with ripe tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and sweet basil and is laced all together by a modest shower of a balsamic reduction and roasted garlic oil. I also noticed as I strolled through their designated canteen station that they offer a full range of firewaters along with fresh mixers and garnishes to dazzle your alcoholic alter egos, good or bad.

And did I mention the crepes! I’ve went back to enjoy their savory ham and gruyere crepe after grinding my digits into my keys for hours and hours while my lobes were assaulted by the screams of Minor Threat. And let me be the first to tell you that there’s nothing like dipping your face into gooey gruyere littered with shards of swine rolling around in Dijon vinaigrette which is all loosely penned in by a sunny silky slim pancake to wake you from your profit driven prisons as it grinds its flavorful fist into the emasculated penis attached to your five senses!

The truth is once I reflected upon my positive experiences at this extremely enjoyable eatery on Wall Street, which I now occasionally use as spank material, it leaves me quoting the great Gordon Gekko with a little improvisation; Beignets for a lack of a better word is good. Actually Beignets is great! Beignets is right. Beignets works. Beignets clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the classical culinary spirit! I hope you enjoy it as much as I did and continue to visit as much as I do which will probably be on a weekly basis if I have my way. Until next time...

Beignets et le cafe

121 Wall Street

Spokane, WA 99201

(509) 315-5653

Additional Script:

And for those seeking competitive Brazilian style Jiu-Jitsu from a more than accomplished instructor who can articulate the motions of this intricate sport to quickly submit opponents while providing an extremely friendly team environment or if you’re just looking to rappel out of a helicopter, physically assault a sentry with hand to hand combat, and slide across a boardroom table gunning down a room full of generals with an AK-47 filled to the brim with simunition rounds, then Newborn - Cascao Jiu-Jitsu is the place for you!

Newborn - Cascao Jiu-Jitsu

1510 N Monroe

Spokane, WA 99201

(702) 265-6520

Colon Crushing Canines

Feeling the small raised surface areas on my QWERTY style board, specifically on the F and J keys, slicing into my index fingers like a couple of lumberjacks hot sawing white pine coupled with an excel spreadsheet littered with figures eating away at my face like a I just went plain crazy Rudy Eugene reminded me that I was long overdue for a lunch break. So I called a buddy of mine, who shall remain nameless due to possible crimes committed against humanity, and he agreed to meet me at a small spot nestled in a quaint brick courtyard at the base of Spokane’s Parkade named Santorini’s Greek Cuisine. I happily agreed because this is a place I have been many, many times before. Although I have to admit it’s been a few months since the last time I stepped into this Gyro slinging saloon.  So I quickly peeled my face from my ThinkVision monitor only to embrace a short elevator ride into the arms of the general public.

Unfortunately for me sprinkled about the general public is the occasional homeless guy who goes out of his way to inconvenience me with a string of idiotic inquiries. I don’t condone giving money to a person who’s too lazy to put together a sign with a black sharpie and a slice of cardboard. Panhandling used to be a glamorous craft in which you’d use an old plaid hat or a tarnished tin cup to gather charity. And after collecting that charity you'd illegally hop on a boxcar only to be whisked away to the next majestic metropolis after embracing America’s breathtaking landscape. Now it’s just a way to gather pennies by simply saying something less than clever such as, “I need change for the bus” and adding “do you have a cigarette” if the first doesn’t succeed. The art of the begging, an unpublished work of Sun Tzu homeless step brother, has died and it took with it any compassion I have for today’s version of the once lovable, adventurous, and occasionally crazed hobo.

After dodging the homeless for a few short blocks, followed by a swim through an alleyway, and a citation beckoning skip across Howard street, I’d finally reached my destination. I remember glancing at the Greek plate grazing patrons sitting happily in the designated L shaped cage just outside and thinking it’s been too long since I’ve had a comforting gyro, a platter of fries, and an ice cold beverage to wash it all down with. The thought caused me to smile and ejaculate just a little bit as I passed through the single glass door. I made brief eye contact with my nameless friend who was face deep in Gyro like he was tossing a prison salad dripping with sweet strawberry syrup. He quickly wiped his tzatziki lathered lips and shook my hand just before we started conversing about the past weekend.

Just so you know most of the conversation at this point in time has been completely purged. The truth be told, I was probably purging his casual conversation as it fell from his tongue and seeped into my ears. I can only remember snippets of audio clips such as joking about grinding down a flock of deer with a massive truck, specifically a fire engine. I do however distinctly recall ordering my food, you know the Gyro, fries, and a drink lunch special (only 8.99 or $9.74 after tax), just before he began the most amusing story I had heard all day... Actually all month! Below is that story as I remember it.

Did I tell you what my dogs did? One day while I was out on my property I was standing by my rig and noticed another rig on my land. Now usually I blast my horn to scare off the deer, but this time I was too focused on the rig on my property to even bother. Soon after I saw a man jump in the rig, start it up, and then drive off. Now I was hoping he’d drive close by so I could explain that he was on private property, but he drove off in another direction. It wasn’t long before I heard a childlike screech and the sound of my dogs barking. You know my dogs. They’re playful and happy and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Now the wife thought it was our niece playing with the dogs, but I explained no way she would be out this far all by herself. So I ran over to the screech which quickly went silent unlike the sound of my dogs. When I reached my dogs I saw what I quickly realized to be a very dead fawn. It had a slobbery neck where my dogs were probably trying to play with it like a squeaky toy. I didn’t see any puncture wounds on its neck, but I did however notice a spot of blood on its anus.

Now where do I begin??? When he first started his tale I thought maybe he’s going to tell me that the guy trespassing on his property was actually a serial killer planting rows and rows of cadavers that would be harvested by the authorities years later. But when he switched gears and began conversing about his barking dogs and a childlike screech, I then concluded that a one year old tit leech crawled their way into an open well, plunged into the murky waters below, and his less than instinctive mutts were merely acting out a cookie cut episode of Lassie.

And I almost started whistling that infamous Lassie tune, that is until I heard the words “spot of blood on its anus.” Now who would have thought that this story would weave away from that innocent Lassie episode only to gruesomely morph into the Edward Olmos classic “American Me”. I believe the quote is, “Next time there will be shit on my knife and not on my dick." Talk about a dog day afternoon for that poor young fawn. I can only imagine how blissful that fawn felt when it slipped out of its mother's womb and onto a bed of tall plush grass covered in cool morning dew. That is until a band of colon crushing canines sailed in on a sea of slobber with the thought of pushing in its poop.

Nothing like hearing about a pack of dogs committing 45 counts of abuse, Sandusky style, to the backside of an innocent baby fawn just before taking in a mouthful of evenly sliced meat pressed between a large warm pita accessorized with lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and a healthy serving of tzatziki. I can honestly say this is the best Greek food you can get in Spokane’s downtown district. Even the golden color flashed over the fries is enough to make Aphrodite spread her legs and spew out a rainbow of fluids from her vagina. Skittles anyone? And just so you know they offer an assortment of appetizers, sandwiches, and dinners such as humus, falafel, kabobs, and moussaka just to name a few, and will happily accommodate vegetarians and their need to gobble up leaves for nutrients.

Santorini's Greek Cuisine

112 N Howard St

Spokane WA 99201

(509) 456-2349

Provoking Curiosity with the County Coroner

After spending half of my day with my head in the books and another quarter of it mindlessly flicking through cable's endless abyss of puke programming I quickly realized that if I wanted to see how long my eyes could inhale second hand sitcoms before I inevitably stabbed them with a rusty old ice pick I knew damn well I had to refuel my stomach to keep my mind mildly interested for the challenge. I thought what could I consume that would provoke curiosity with the county coroner after possibly impaling my jugular right before mercifully blinding myself? Scotch and cupcakes maybe?  How would that obituary read?  I know he died peacefully after bleeding out on his kitchen floor with a fat cuban pressed between his grinning teeth. I mean who wouldn't carry a cartoon grin after drowning themselves in 18 year old scotch, chasing that down with some pink frosting, and ending the parade with a stogie the size of Texas. Did I mention it was rolled by a ten year old Cuban coincidently named Elian? If anything we can honestly say that the scotch and cigar proves he was the most interesting man's first cousin while the delicate bite sized cake displayed his more than sensitive side.  I'm getting all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it. But all that crap is beside the point considering my insides were clawing away at my stomach's lining in an attempt to scavenge any kind of nutrients outside in the almost real world. So I grabbed my wallet, flung open the door to an old model import, plunged its key into the ignition, and gave it a twist like I would a nipple on a passed out transvestite bound and gagged in the trunk of a stolen sedan.

It wasn't long before I was watching the rubber lip of my garage door press itself into the smooth but dusty concrete below in the reflection of my rearview. I drove along the drag less than a block away from my abode hoping that some beacon of culinary delight would reel me in like a sweaty three fingered redneck woman would a muddy 90 pound catfish. My head swiveled from side to side as though I placed a million dollar bet on a fast paced game of pong. As my wheels spun over the asphalt I felt as though I was swimming in rays of psychedelic lights cast by the usual fast food chains found along this pothole riddled avenue. My stomach turned at the thought of grinding down a steamed patty with its powerful pepsin so much so that I thought it would be better to just mash my gas pedal into the stained mat below until I plowed into a freshly filled gas tanker instantly incinerating myself just like, you guessed it, that bound transvestite locked away in the trunk of a stolen sedan. But then the county coroner would be bored kicking around the charred flesh of my previous existence without a single "so guess what I found in some jackass' stomach" story to bore his Craig's List boy toy with. And at the end of that thought is when my eyes glanced along an outlet that was slightly illuminated by streams of neon that read, "Fries Burgers Shakes". 

By this time that colorful cursive had me steering onto a path towards this gas station turned burger joint. As the tread on my tires slowly revolved their way to the eatery my eyes quickly nibbled on the sign that read, "Stop N Go Family Drive-in".  The house lights were bright enough for me to take notice of the interior which was wrapped tightly in 50's diner style decor that would have Fonzie setting up shop in the ladies bathroom. Thinking back to all those Happy Days episodes The Fonz was basically a pedophile that spent half of his time hanging out in a public restroom and the other half banging jukeboxes and underage high school teens. But in Fonzie's defense it was pretty much a free for all when it came to women back then. These days when you knock up a girl you peel off a couple of crisp hundreds and point her to the nearest clinic to have the unborn child scraped out like shit on the bottom of your shoe. But in the fifties, if she didn't move away for the summer only to return with a screaming rug rat, it was a casual push into a doorknob or a shove down a flight of stairs that got the job done. Have times changed for the better?

I eventually glided my import into one of the small lot's painted spaces. I stepped through the sally port style doors and was immediately punched in the nose with the familiar aroma of ground beef cooking away on a flat stainless steel grill. That's right no steamed patties in this hut. Just grilled and flash fried food such as fish, fries, and chicken strips that boot your triglycerides smack in the balls, ultimately turning your blood into a sloppy sludge. My eyes darted around the menu looking for something delightfully simple, because right now I want to gobble down a burger, much like Fonzie would the vagina of an innocent teen, and chase that down with some salty fries and a Cherry Coke. 

Most of the time when I walk into a burger hut they tend to sex up your mind by offering foreplay add ons such as grilled onions, fried onion rings, jalapeños, guacamole, ten types of bacon, forty types of cheeses, and the list goes on and on and on.  But not this place! They keep it simple enough that even a tard baby could order a decent meal just by pointing at the bright board above glazed over with limited meals options. So much like a tard baby I glanced upward, pointed, and mumbled, number four, followed by a silverback grunt. The number four is a burger layered with a grilled patty, cheese, a slice of grilled ham, house sauce, pickles, and fresh cut onions. Accompanied with my order are large fries and a large self serve soft drink dispensed by touch screen leaving the option of flavors almost limitless. And after my grunt she happily replied with a bright smile, "that will be six dollars." I'm sorry but what was that, I quickly followed as I tried to make sense of the price? She smiled again, "your order comes to six dollars." You mean before taxes right, as I still tried to make sense of her tally of my edible items? And without losing her pleasantry she said, "nope, just six dollars." So I pulled out my debit card like a zoot suit wearing Mexican would a switchblade and extended it her way. And she replied with the following, "We don't take debit cards sir, just cash." Just cash?! Keeping that wonderful smile she replied, "Yes sir, just cash."

Now normally most people would be appalled at a place that didn't accept some sort of plastic as a payment option. But not this guy. Call me nostalgic but I miss the times where I needed to pull money out of my wallet to pay for a meal, household goods, and some illegal services. No worrying about things like I wonder if that card is going to go through since I just purchased some industrial rubber gloves, zip ties, large plastic bags, gallons of bleach, a hack saw, a shovel, and a bag of lye. The fact is I appreciate places that have a cash only policy because let's face it the line moves twenty times quicker due to the lack of delays caused by overcharged cards carried by silicon breasted blondes, downed phone lines, and 16 year olds who can't operate a credit card machine let alone a motor vehicle. Even when you're robbed by that random transvestite in the red-light district of your hometown you're better off holding your bludgeoned skull missing a couple of C notes instead of a piles of plastic, because everyone knows it takes most people more time to call the bank and tell them that their cards have been stolen than it takes some jackass to order a dozen X-Box 360's from Nigeria with the string of numbers stamped across your cards. Just ask Chris Hansen.

So there I was holding out my card in perfect tard baby form as I ingested the information about this place being a cash only environment. My salivating mouth quickly fired, where is the closest ATM, as my olfactory system happily embraced the smell of someone else's ham sizzling away on the grill?! She pointed over her shoulder and told me about a major bank that would graciously give me money after raping me over and over again with fee after fee after fee. I then asked, so that's right around the corner right, as I pulled down my pants, grabbed both of my ankles, just before walking backwards towards the extremely hung institution? She humbly replied, "You can't miss it, its right next door to Safeway." Wait a second, did she say Safeway? I would rather swing into a market and buy a candy bar which would allow me to pull out some cash, which is the equivalent of getting fingered, rather than a full on fisting of fees, elbow deep of course, by the bank next door. So I crawled back into my import as my stomach growled at me and made my way to the market.

Moments later, after clipping a few pedestrians in a fee saving rage, I was holding my now beloved candy bar while patiently tapping my foot in the almost express checkout line. In front of me were these bright blue eyes attached to a baby riding bitch in a filthy plastic death cart. Now I know we are somewhat bound by an unspoken code that we shouldn't point out faults in others, especially if that other is around 12 months of age, but believe me when I tell you that those big blue eyes, probably donated to the kid by Sinatra himself, were attached to what I would call a translucent cancer rat. At one point I actually thought this thing had simpered at me, but for all I know it could have just frowned curving it's thick blonde unibrow into a smile. It wasn't long before the animal was wheeled out in its cage by its handler. This gave me the opportunity purchase my bar, steamroll over the hood of my borrowed import like a heftier version of Tom Wopat, and crawl back into the Stop N Go mildly out of breath with a fist full of dollars. I handed her the cash and she forked over the burger and fries, after it was freshly prepared, along with my drinking cup.

I took my food, laid out on a thin black plastic slab, and sat down setting my Cherry Coke at arm's reach. The burger is simple and not overzealously big. In fact I'm inclined to think it's actually of normal proportions. Now most Americans would be livid at the size of the greasy beef patty and the sliver of ham blanketing the pulverized flesh. But let's face it as Americans we place burgers in the "bigger is better" category. Everyone knows that when we place our pupils on a menu board, at any burger hut stamped across our fifty great states, soak in the photo of a more than massive burger much like a ripe tanned Brazilian ass soaks up the sun's cancerous rays, and we devour it with our sense of sight working our way through the veggies, cheeses, bacon, and sauces and then receive its reality between two flattened buns we instantly become completely and utterly enraged and lash out by verbally assaulting the hut to everyone and anyone who is willing to listen. The fact is we've become victims of marketing campaigns that specifically target our appetites by thrusting are visual G spots with images of artery clogging goodies blown up to lather the entire face of our 70 inch flat screen TVs. What happened to the times where a burger was nothing more than a patty pressed between two buns with a little ketchup and mustard? Oh that's right; it ended up on the kid's menu!

After a mild case of starvation and remembering the triathlon of mindless television I set out to endure I picked up my burger and ripped off my first bite. And I was completely delighted that the burger lived up to my expectations. I wasn't dropping 12 bucks on a couple of buns filled with jaw breaking proportions of beef with a salad sprinkled on top of it. I was eating a burger that was a measly two seventy-five but more importantly satisfyingly simple. This delightful ground chuck was enough to hammer my hunger into submission with the assistance of fries, which I enjoyed due to their crisp perfectly salted shell, and the sensational slurp of my Cherry Coke. Safely put, if you're on a budget, not celebrating your 20th anniversary with your loved one, not morbidly obese with an insane Pac Man eating disorder, and want a satisfying meal, well then, this my friend is probably the place for you.

Stop N Go Family Drive-In
6325 N Wall St
Spokane WA 99205