Diet Raspberry Snapple Iced Tea Purchased at the 4th and Walnut Cosi; Philadelphia, PA
The diet raspberry Snapple iced tea tasted as if I’d been whisked away to Manila in the Philippines, and was invited by carrier pigeon message to a private viewing of ten of the most precious pairs of shoes in Imelda Marcos’s collection. Each shoe was adorned with the most delicate of bows crafted entirely of fine baby hair and strawberry preserves. Imelda whispered, “Come hither, my sweet, sweet pet.” And I heeded her wanton call.
That’s what it tasted like.
Almond Cupcake; Brown Betty; Philadelphia, PA
These cupcakes tasted as if Carebears had farted joy and happiness into a diamond quarry, then scooped up the mixture into a golden vessel and let it blend while placed carefully on a glistening carousel set at light speed; after several fortnights of whirring, the vessel was then removed and left to bake, high in a velvety emerald-hued valley in the purest Alpine sunlight.
They kind of tasted like that.
Steak Quesadilla Tower; Steelyard Applebees: Cleveland, OH
This delicate monstrosity can only be the birth of what was a magical night on the Seine. Under the moonlight on the starboard deck of the S.S. Naught stood Tiffany and Faberge. Their gentle love affair swirled in with the currents and ran out with the tide, assisted only by a monocle and small tweezers. The delicate crystals roughly mined by the scarred hands of those who came before us, shines brighter than the volcanic sun, setting on the port. Where once the starkest contradictions were left to be, now they are married under the eternal gaze of all who come to know. Take a bow on the bow you father of delicate, son of exquisite, tonight is your night.
That’s what it tasted like.
Burger with Bleu Cheese; North Third; Philadelphia, PA
This burger tasted as if Jack Kerouac and Che Guevara sat down to a genial game of poker, and whilst sharing a cask of the finest Argentinian wine, proposed, on a lark, that they visit Patagonia, where they jet-skied into the sunset on the region’s crystalline lakes.
Pasta Misseri; Mollinari’s; Cleveland, OH
As I took my first bite I felt the infusion of what once must have been Icelandic gnomes, now long forgotten, transformed into an entirely new species, race as if by dog sled down the curvature of my tongue. The fiery creatures jubilantly broke into dance and song of yore in a language of glorious clicks and clatters. The sensation increased with the introduction of what can only be described as archaic finger drumming on skins of tanned hide, from what Mesolithic beast, I do not know. Only to come to a crashing halt as the glory and triumph once entwined in the gnomian soul dissipated into a Paleolithic lull.
That’s what it tasted like.
Profiteroles; Parc; Philadelphia, PA
It was as if the Star of Bethlehem exploded into a million glittering shards of iridescent crystal, raining down like a softly shimmering curtain upon that heartwarming scene in the midnight desert and dusting the dewy cheek of our infant Saviour with the finest of diamond dust. Mary and Joseph, upon viewing the fantastic display, caught their breath and were thusly inspired to get it on for the first time, creating His Baby Brother.
So, just to make that clear, we had TWO Messiahs, not just one.
They kind of tasted like that.
Huevos Rancheros; Honey’s Sit ‘n’ Eat, Philadelphia, PA
It was as if Cesar Chavez himself invited me on a walking tour of the Mexican foothills, nestled ever so gently between the majestic village of Tijuana and the whimsical American city of San Diego. As I gazed upon the barren countryside, I was overcome with emotion. Who am I? What is my place in this universe? And then Senor Chavez leaned over, and softly whispered into my ear, “Never stop dancing.”
The Pacific breezes sighed, and in a moment I was transported—in mind, body, and in spirit—back to my present in Philadelphia.
That’s what they tasted like.
