Burns My Bacon: Eat it, Bitch!


As you may have ascertained from the title of this piece (or perhaps you’ve read some of my previous blogs), I’m not too concerned with being ‘politically correct.’ In my small circle of animal loving, hybrid driving, “We Are the World” group of friends, I’m considered somewhat of a jerk.

I’m regularly referred to as a ‘Neanderthal’, ‘clueless’ and ‘barbaric’ whenever I’m asked to give my opinion regarding the latest food trends. Lately I’ve been defending my “hands off” attitude toward obtaining certain background information about my meals. Why should I apologize for caring more about how my veal was prepared than how it was raised? After all, it’s one of the perks about being at the top of the food chain. I don’t care how you slaughtered my lunch just don’t over cook it!

I don’t mean to sound cruel but I’m a carnivore without a conscience. If my chicken dinner is going to cost an additional ten bucks because it’s “free range” then just give me the common bird that was raised in a pen resembling a Tokyo subway car during rush hour. Believe me, once it’s battered and fried I could care less about its childhood.

And regardless of what my friends may say, my dinner isn’t more enjoyable when I know that the tuna is ‘dolphin safe,’ or what local farm my steak came from. Taste is my top-deciding factor when I’m planning my next meal option. Cost comes in a close second.

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Burns My Bacon: Burning My Bacon!

Los Angeles is a lonely, desolate place to live if you’re looking for great service and properly prepared food at a restaurant. Especially if you’re spending less than a hundred bucks a plate. Oh, it happens now and then. But it’s really become a sort of Culinary Lottery to actually get just what it was you ordered. The kitchen always looks busy, and the wait staff is usually friendly and attentive, but something happens once you answer their meal inquiries. I see them write it down, or repeat it back to me and nod reassuringly. But then they walk away and sometime later food is delivered by new strangers that then ask me what it was I ordered. “The over-cooked rib eye with the steamed, reheated limp green beans?” Oh gosh, that would be me. I’ve been sucking on the ice cubes of my empty drink for so long I almost forgot what I ordered myself. Could I get another drink, please? “I’ll get your waiter.” Yes, please do. I don’t know why I was thinking that you could get it considering that you didn’t know I ordered the steak even though I’m the only one sitting at this table.

And when my waiter finally does return, I know that they will stare down at my untouched plate, look at me, smile and say, “So how is everything? Cooked the way you like?” Why yes, my heat sensitive x-ray vision tells me that the center of both my entrée and side dish are at the optimum temperature. May I ask you to lean closer so that I might bitch slap you into oblivion?

What the F is happening? I used to enjoy going out to eat but now it’s become like starring in my own version of the Matrix. Do ANY of these out-of-work actors really want to be waiters? Here’s a little test that I did at the last 10 places that I’ve eaten: at the end of my meal I always order a cup of coffee and each time without fail, this has been the response; “Do you take cream and sugar?” To which I always answer (very firmly and with conviction), “No, just black please!” And out of the last ten times that this scenario has taken place, only ONE TIME have I received a cup of coffee without an accompanying creamer and assortment of sugars, sweeteners and pink bags of crystal chemicals. If you’re going to bring me these sidecars anyway, why are you asking me how I drink my coffee? And what other information haven’t you processed? My severe peanut allergy? My request to substitute the potato with more vegetables? Asking me if I’d like bread, and then bringing me a basket of it after I replied “no” doesn’t instill much confidence from my end.

And…what’s up with the bacon?

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