(no subject)
This one's for you, Stephanie. And Hector.
It's not like I had high expectations. I would've taken a cheap Bloodsport parody and a few jokes revolving around paddles to the nether regions. But even that was too much to ask. Balls of Fury (no link, they don't deserve any promotion) was hands-down the worst movie I've seen in at least five years. This steaming pile of crap couldn't elicit even a single giggle from the sparse audience, not one member over the age of fourteen. You wonder why I didn't see that coming. You wonder why I even bothered. I know, it's makes no sense. But what I know that you don't know is I've re-discovered my ping pong obsession. Yep, from sixth through ninth grade, I spent most of my time in my friend Danny's basement, whiling away the girl-free hours with round after round of ping pong. And this dormant flower of a hobby has returned to light this summer. I've been sampling Brooklyn's finest tables of late, and much to my pleasure, in a bout of heart-warming synchronicity, Hollywood has released this movie that seemed aimed right for me.
So to wipe the memory of this appalling flick, a trip down 7th Ave. to the tables at Brownstone Billiards was in order. Which was great as usual, and all that. But in between the cinematic lobotomy and the hot table tennis action, we stopped for dinner at Chiles & Chocolate Oaxacan Kitchen. And you know what they had on the menu? CHAPULINES! And in deference to my last entry, there was no way in hell I was going to pass up this opportunity to consume Orthoptera chitin.
Now, beneath the cut is the photographic documentation of this amuse-bouche. And please keep in mind I was stone. cold. sober. for this treat.
The swarm:
Going in for the kill:
No turning back:
They tasted pretty much like they looked. A little tangy, a little acrid. Kind of like salty battery acid. Nothing oozed out of them. They added a bit of crispness to the crunch of the chip, but didn't add much to the cool-and-moist/dry-and-flat counterbalance of the guacamole and tortilla. The aftertaste was considerably more prominent than the initial taste. I was pretty convinced a leg or wing was lodged in my throat through the whole meal, and I was sure I had a lump of undigested legs and antennae slowly making its way through my innards for the next twelve hours.
I'll try the huitlacoche (aka: corn smut, aka: raven's shit) quesadilla next time I return.
It's not like I had high expectations. I would've taken a cheap Bloodsport parody and a few jokes revolving around paddles to the nether regions. But even that was too much to ask. Balls of Fury (no link, they don't deserve any promotion) was hands-down the worst movie I've seen in at least five years. This steaming pile of crap couldn't elicit even a single giggle from the sparse audience, not one member over the age of fourteen. You wonder why I didn't see that coming. You wonder why I even bothered. I know, it's makes no sense. But what I know that you don't know is I've re-discovered my ping pong obsession. Yep, from sixth through ninth grade, I spent most of my time in my friend Danny's basement, whiling away the girl-free hours with round after round of ping pong. And this dormant flower of a hobby has returned to light this summer. I've been sampling Brooklyn's finest tables of late, and much to my pleasure, in a bout of heart-warming synchronicity, Hollywood has released this movie that seemed aimed right for me.
So to wipe the memory of this appalling flick, a trip down 7th Ave. to the tables at Brownstone Billiards was in order. Which was great as usual, and all that. But in between the cinematic lobotomy and the hot table tennis action, we stopped for dinner at Chiles & Chocolate Oaxacan Kitchen. And you know what they had on the menu? CHAPULINES! And in deference to my last entry, there was no way in hell I was going to pass up this opportunity to consume Orthoptera chitin.
Now, beneath the cut is the photographic documentation of this amuse-bouche. And please keep in mind I was stone. cold. sober. for this treat.
The swarm:
Going in for the kill:
No turning back:
They tasted pretty much like they looked. A little tangy, a little acrid. Kind of like salty battery acid. Nothing oozed out of them. They added a bit of crispness to the crunch of the chip, but didn't add much to the cool-and-moist/dry-and-flat counterbalance of the guacamole and tortilla. The aftertaste was considerably more prominent than the initial taste. I was pretty convinced a leg or wing was lodged in my throat through the whole meal, and I was sure I had a lump of undigested legs and antennae slowly making its way through my innards for the next twelve hours.
I'll try the huitlacoche (aka: corn smut, aka: raven's shit) quesadilla next time I return.