You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

You waited long enough

Well since my movie reviews have been an overwhelming success - seriously, I cannot even go to a theatre anymore without some fan telling me to stop dictating into my iphone- obviously a natural progression for me is to try my hand at gastronomy. I’m not going to get all uppity about it either, so don’t worry. While I do have more taste buds than a dog and a more evolved palate than you sorry sacks reading this, I will not make you feel stupid. I’m sure you are capable of that all on your own.

I’m going to fill you in on a world that you will not be able to fully appreciate nor understand. The life of a food critic, while I’m sure you equate to the rankings of 1980’s TV sitcom stars, is not as glamorous as it appears. We use a lot of drugs. We are greasy and overweight. It is impossible to know how many calories we consume let alone salt and cholesterol contents. Basically, any food critic that makes it past 50 is a hack. We have no friends because, as you all know, friendships are usually cemented while breaking bread, and how in the fuck can I be expected to dine, let alone respect, ignorant food neophytes? So yeah, I’m pretty lonely but it’s better than being bored I guess.

That being said, my first official review: DEL TACO located at L*ons Avenue in Newhall California as tasted June 14, 2010. To start, I got really baked in the parking lot. I was nervous and afraid my appetite was going to be suppressed, so it seemed natural. I pulled into the drive thru around 11:45 PM, still smelling like my hockey equipment because some fucking junior team that played before us lost and took it out on the flowered curtains and there is no way I’m taking a shower in front of Danny’s mustache. I was promptly greeted by the friendly sound of a crackling intercom demanding my order. I reflexively ordered the #4-thanks Jen (2 chicken soft taco combo) but specialized it with hard shells - soft tacos are for chumps. They asked a series of stupid questions: yes I wanted a LARGE combo, yes I wanted Del Scorcho sauce, yes I wanted a drink, no I wouldn’t mind telling you what kind. Ten minutes later, I was at the window handing over my Chase Visa debit-card, grabbed the food and parked. I don’t remember much of the meal, by then I was starving and ate everything in less than 90 seconds. The ambiance was nice, considering it was the driver’s seat of my 1988 Fiat Strada and I was listening to the boss crone the River. Of course I’d go back, it didn’t kill me and didn’t give me the shits. Fuck, I forgot to apply the Del Scorcho!

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