298.
Coree J. Hogan
06.20.10
Journ 21B - Feature Writing
Restaurant Review
A Delectable Outing to High Class and Fine Dining -
a restaurant review by Coree J. Hogan
As I pull up to the corner of Hillsdale and Meridian, I see the oh so familiar refuge for the restless, unrecognized talents and marathon drunks known as The Cardinal. The sign below, advertising this unholy tabernacle as a 24 hour diner, intermittently flickers, reminding me that the power transformers have probably been as meticulously examined as the ever growing population of Atlantis. I make an illegal left turn into the lot and park on the side, as my self-inflicted nighthawk protocol dictates. Upon exiting the vehicle, my vision is violently molested by the lights radiating from the building's interior - cacophonous and atrociously juxtaposed red and white lights that would send a catholic to confessional and make a cheap hooker feel the homely warmth of any red light district. I light up a cigarette and check the time. It's 1:43 a.m. The intoxicants are running strong, still standing on the legs of a two-day bender involving single-malt scotch, intravenous oxycontin abuse and a few grams of mediocre cocaine from a far from generous Mongolian hustler named Hashka. As I smoke my hand-rolled cigarette, through my third degree burning eyes, I vaguely make out either a drug deal, a stabbing or both, but the hunger of two days' involuntary starvation throws my smoke into the brim-full makeshift ashtray out of what appears to be the ruins of a mulberry bush, abducted from its habitat and forced into visual slavery, and this plantation, is about to serve me eggs and hash browns.
I stumble through the double set of double doors and am not shocked to see the same cast and crew for someplace so obscure that only the likes of David Lynch could draw any sort of creative inspiration. The hostess is wearing too much makeup and has big, bright eyes that hide well the miniscule salary she receives in order to feed her three fatherless kids. She doesn't seat me, however. I just grab a menu and walk past the front counter, and she smiles at me, knowing me by my face but not my name, just like the rest of the employees. I open up the menu, already knowing that I'm about to explore the several pockets of the unwashed blazer I've been wearing, trying to produce the six dollars and five cents it costs for the eggs. Luckily, I pull out a rolled up twenty dollar note. Fantastic, I think to myself, I can buy a drink. The server, and I only say server because being the professional journalist that I am, I need to use non-gender discriminatory terms for the workforce, or else I run the risk of being called a republican.
/How's your night going?/
\Well, will you still serve me a drink?\
/Yeah, looks like the bar's still open/
\Thought so, I'll have a sapphire-tonic. And the two eggs and hash browns. You know how I like the hash browns too. Cremated. Burnt as hell. Like the twin towers after 9-11. And the sourdough toast. Oh yeah. And the pepper plant sauce. It's essential. By the way, my night's incredible and I hope yours is too.\
I sit in anticipation while the waiter fetches my drink. I recall how I love a good gin and tonic, but only with the correct proportions. About 70-30, and I'm sure you, gentle reader, can guess which side is more heavily weighted. The yellow pad of notes with pale green lines is filled with incoherent scratches, unrealized images and, what's that? Oh fuck! I'm writing this for a class! I slap myself in the face (much to the entertainment of anyone watching) and see [B. Kava J21-writethisyougoddamnidiotit'swhatthefuckhaveyoubeendoingallquarter?!?!?] written in red "copyedit the hell out of any shitty article" ink. Then came the internal struggle. Do I conform to using all these absurd flowery adjectives, void of all honesty and compromise my own values as a writer for a paper? I had been well aware that throughout the quarter I hadn't turned in a cent's worth of work, while every one else in the class had diligently crafted their assignments, while I had sat back and felt written a god damn column [see Reality 101 for details]. Then I realized that I'm not taking this class for a grade, but rather to better my abilities as a writer, so I turned my notepad to a new page and wrote [fuck it] in the most beautiful calligraphy I've ever ejaculated onto a piece of paper from a pen.
Upon the end of the argument with myself, I received my drink and took a hearty oral snort. It immediately tasted sour, bitter and filled me with a sense of reckless abandon and a deep rooted hatred for sunshine and flowers. A damn good drink, if I do say so myself. Fumbling around through my blazer, I find a bottle of pills in my right interior breast pocket. The label reads "Juan Contreras - diazepam 10mg - 3 refills left", but instead of the usual turquoise valiums, I find a handful of oblong off-yellow pills that read "10/325" and take a few for good measure. While returning them to a different pocket, I spill a few onto the table right as the good gentleman brings me my plate of eggs, hash browns and toast. He gives me a strange glance and I get nervous.
\You want any? They're endocet. 10 milligrams oxycodone, 325 tylenol\
I start to awkwardly sweat from my palms. The moisture condenses on my fingerless gloves.
\They're great for after work, or on the job\
I continue, noticing him trying hard to make me look like a drunken fool, hiding his obvious interest. I could've pegged him for a pill popper from a mile away.
\Good legs on these pills. They won't knock you on your ass. Pro bono, too! I dropped them on your table, so take 'em as a tip!\
He shook his head, but looked around the restaurant to see if my boisterous behavior had drawn unwanted attention. Luckily, it hadn't. He took the three pills I spilled on the table and mouthed a strangely honest "thanks".
My food looked fantastically awful, which is a guilty pleasure of mine, and I immediately drowned it in pepper plant sauce and black pepper. Now, I could say that it tasted like "a little piece of heaven" or that it "melts in my mouth". But it didn't. I'm not a PR agent, nor will I ever preform fellatio on the devil. The eggs were drier than the skulls of unlucky mafia hitmen, buried jawless in the desert to avoid a matching dental record and, as requested, the hash browns were about as black as every professional basketball team. The toast was the only item cooked in a presentable manner, which I graciously appreciated. I consumed the meal with the same vigor and gusto of a junkie in an Afghanistanian poppy field, and in no less than five minutes, the platter of pepper plant sauce with a side of eggs and hash browns had been reduced to a gigantic portion of nothingness, leaving my mouth an inferno of spices and hellblaze peppers. With the alcohol playing kryptonite to the pungent mess of potatoes and dead chicken embryos' superman, I found myself satisfied, contrary to Mick Jagger's historic mantra.
I walked out, leaving the twenty dollar note on the table. Why did I do this? Well, I honestly have no idea. I think honesty is important. There are so many values that have died the death of a claimed savior - bloody, vile and completely unnecessary, had the masses of murders known what they were doing. But they don't. They won't. Integrity is also essential, but as a characteristic, it's so subjective that anyone can claim they have it and any one can claim that everyone else lacks it. The only objective value that I can think of at this moment is honor. Honor is... Wait a minute, what the fuck? I reached into one of my pockets to pull out my cigarettes, and it must have been the wrong one. Instead of a pouch of Bugler tobacco, I pulled out six hundred dollar bills and a soiled italian stiletto. Lord, with all my integrity, I honestly hope that honor is not six hundred bucks and a bloody knife. How the hell did I become me?
06.20.10
Journ 21B - Feature Writing
Restaurant Review
A Delectable Outing to High Class and Fine Dining -
a restaurant review by Coree J. Hogan
As I pull up to the corner of Hillsdale and Meridian, I see the oh so familiar refuge for the restless, unrecognized talents and marathon drunks known as The Cardinal. The sign below, advertising this unholy tabernacle as a 24 hour diner, intermittently flickers, reminding me that the power transformers have probably been as meticulously examined as the ever growing population of Atlantis. I make an illegal left turn into the lot and park on the side, as my self-inflicted nighthawk protocol dictates. Upon exiting the vehicle, my vision is violently molested by the lights radiating from the building's interior - cacophonous and atrociously juxtaposed red and white lights that would send a catholic to confessional and make a cheap hooker feel the homely warmth of any red light district. I light up a cigarette and check the time. It's 1:43 a.m. The intoxicants are running strong, still standing on the legs of a two-day bender involving single-malt scotch, intravenous oxycontin abuse and a few grams of mediocre cocaine from a far from generous Mongolian hustler named Hashka. As I smoke my hand-rolled cigarette, through my third degree burning eyes, I vaguely make out either a drug deal, a stabbing or both, but the hunger of two days' involuntary starvation throws my smoke into the brim-full makeshift ashtray out of what appears to be the ruins of a mulberry bush, abducted from its habitat and forced into visual slavery, and this plantation, is about to serve me eggs and hash browns.
I stumble through the double set of double doors and am not shocked to see the same cast and crew for someplace so obscure that only the likes of David Lynch could draw any sort of creative inspiration. The hostess is wearing too much makeup and has big, bright eyes that hide well the miniscule salary she receives in order to feed her three fatherless kids. She doesn't seat me, however. I just grab a menu and walk past the front counter, and she smiles at me, knowing me by my face but not my name, just like the rest of the employees. I open up the menu, already knowing that I'm about to explore the several pockets of the unwashed blazer I've been wearing, trying to produce the six dollars and five cents it costs for the eggs. Luckily, I pull out a rolled up twenty dollar note. Fantastic, I think to myself, I can buy a drink. The server, and I only say server because being the professional journalist that I am, I need to use non-gender discriminatory terms for the workforce, or else I run the risk of being called a republican.
/How's your night going?/
\Well, will you still serve me a drink?\
/Yeah, looks like the bar's still open/
\Thought so, I'll have a sapphire-tonic. And the two eggs and hash browns. You know how I like the hash browns too. Cremated. Burnt as hell. Like the twin towers after 9-11. And the sourdough toast. Oh yeah. And the pepper plant sauce. It's essential. By the way, my night's incredible and I hope yours is too.\
I sit in anticipation while the waiter fetches my drink. I recall how I love a good gin and tonic, but only with the correct proportions. About 70-30, and I'm sure you, gentle reader, can guess which side is more heavily weighted. The yellow pad of notes with pale green lines is filled with incoherent scratches, unrealized images and, what's that? Oh fuck! I'm writing this for a class! I slap myself in the face (much to the entertainment of anyone watching) and see [B. Kava J21-writethisyougoddamnidiotit'swhatthefuckhaveyoubeendoingallquarter?!?!?] written in red "copyedit the hell out of any shitty article" ink. Then came the internal struggle. Do I conform to using all these absurd flowery adjectives, void of all honesty and compromise my own values as a writer for a paper? I had been well aware that throughout the quarter I hadn't turned in a cent's worth of work, while every one else in the class had diligently crafted their assignments, while I had sat back and felt written a god damn column [see Reality 101 for details]. Then I realized that I'm not taking this class for a grade, but rather to better my abilities as a writer, so I turned my notepad to a new page and wrote [fuck it] in the most beautiful calligraphy I've ever ejaculated onto a piece of paper from a pen.
Upon the end of the argument with myself, I received my drink and took a hearty oral snort. It immediately tasted sour, bitter and filled me with a sense of reckless abandon and a deep rooted hatred for sunshine and flowers. A damn good drink, if I do say so myself. Fumbling around through my blazer, I find a bottle of pills in my right interior breast pocket. The label reads "Juan Contreras - diazepam 10mg - 3 refills left", but instead of the usual turquoise valiums, I find a handful of oblong off-yellow pills that read "10/325" and take a few for good measure. While returning them to a different pocket, I spill a few onto the table right as the good gentleman brings me my plate of eggs, hash browns and toast. He gives me a strange glance and I get nervous.
\You want any? They're endocet. 10 milligrams oxycodone, 325 tylenol\
I start to awkwardly sweat from my palms. The moisture condenses on my fingerless gloves.
\They're great for after work, or on the job\
I continue, noticing him trying hard to make me look like a drunken fool, hiding his obvious interest. I could've pegged him for a pill popper from a mile away.
\Good legs on these pills. They won't knock you on your ass. Pro bono, too! I dropped them on your table, so take 'em as a tip!\
He shook his head, but looked around the restaurant to see if my boisterous behavior had drawn unwanted attention. Luckily, it hadn't. He took the three pills I spilled on the table and mouthed a strangely honest "thanks".
My food looked fantastically awful, which is a guilty pleasure of mine, and I immediately drowned it in pepper plant sauce and black pepper. Now, I could say that it tasted like "a little piece of heaven" or that it "melts in my mouth". But it didn't. I'm not a PR agent, nor will I ever preform fellatio on the devil. The eggs were drier than the skulls of unlucky mafia hitmen, buried jawless in the desert to avoid a matching dental record and, as requested, the hash browns were about as black as every professional basketball team. The toast was the only item cooked in a presentable manner, which I graciously appreciated. I consumed the meal with the same vigor and gusto of a junkie in an Afghanistanian poppy field, and in no less than five minutes, the platter of pepper plant sauce with a side of eggs and hash browns had been reduced to a gigantic portion of nothingness, leaving my mouth an inferno of spices and hellblaze peppers. With the alcohol playing kryptonite to the pungent mess of potatoes and dead chicken embryos' superman, I found myself satisfied, contrary to Mick Jagger's historic mantra.
I walked out, leaving the twenty dollar note on the table. Why did I do this? Well, I honestly have no idea. I think honesty is important. There are so many values that have died the death of a claimed savior - bloody, vile and completely unnecessary, had the masses of murders known what they were doing. But they don't. They won't. Integrity is also essential, but as a characteristic, it's so subjective that anyone can claim they have it and any one can claim that everyone else lacks it. The only objective value that I can think of at this moment is honor. Honor is... Wait a minute, what the fuck? I reached into one of my pockets to pull out my cigarettes, and it must have been the wrong one. Instead of a pouch of Bugler tobacco, I pulled out six hundred dollar bills and a soiled italian stiletto. Lord, with all my integrity, I honestly hope that honor is not six hundred bucks and a bloody knife. How the hell did I become me?