Pete has been getting a good chuckle lately from the over-the-top descriptions on menus. For instance, the hot chocolate at the Chocolate Room is "...designed to satisfy both your inner child and refined taste (sic)"--Ms. Baconista enjoyed it but thought it was like eating a drink (Pete agreed)--while the Cafe Torino (hot chocolate, espresso, and steamed milk) is "...5 oz. of chocolatey wakey up!" Pete--and Oprah too apparently!--enjoyed the three-layer blackout cake; though after being forced to eat the whole thing by himself, Pete felt as if he should join in on this fight between the two legendary skinny/fatties, Oprah and Elvis. And then there are these beauts from the extremely overrated Van Leeuween Artisan (Red alert! Red alert!) ice cream truck: The beans used in the espresso ice cream "...grow in the moist, temperate foothills of the Andes, where the combination of high altitude and moist climate (make) for an an especially rich flavor."; and the mint chip derives its peppermint flavor from the "rich volcanic soils of Oregon" and the "real magic of (our) chocolate chips" is that they "melt very quickly in the mouth, as opposed to thick chips...which are usually swallowed before their true flavors become exposed through melting." Pete doesn't know how many times he's heard someone say: "The ice cream was nice and creamy--but the lack of proper melt factor of the chips sort of ruined it for me."
But this is supposed to be about Pete's lunch, so if Pete's lunch was on a menu, it would go a little something like this:
The macaroni and cheese gets its base hue from the red pepper that is sourced from a small farm on a monastery in the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur, each grain of pepper is handpicked by a blindfolded monk whose eyes have never seen the light of day; the red of tranquility is complemented by the green of sentiment that emanates from the frozen peas, peas a color of which reminds one of the mermaid that saved them from drowning as a small child--and whose emerald eyes have haunted their dreams ever since; the scent of the sea wafts to the olfactory from the salmon that has never been touched by human hands--a fakir on a fish farm in remote Montana simply plays a sweet tune on his Zamfir and the fish swim directly into the can. This dish is like breathing in the earth. The wind. The fire. And then exhaling the heavens.