The Guy’s American Kitchen waitress studied the half-chewed pork, slaw, salmon, mashed potatoes and maybe moon rocks we’d left on our plates. I wouldn’t feed the mess to a cat — the end-product of our struggle to extract edible elements from heaps of sugar and sludge masquerading as normal food.
“Would you like me to wrap that up for you?” she chirped.
...and gets worse:
Pasta ended the rally. Fettuccine came with cajun-spiced blackened chicken breast—random meat fragments neither blackened nor spiced. Creamy Parmesan sauce could moonlight as engine lubricant. The plate must hold 3,000 calories. Could one human eat it all? If so, should he or she be allowed out of the house?
Before ending with Steve taking his balls home -- "Irish-German chocolate cake was the sort of sickly-sweet affair that pleases when you’re drunk at 2 a.m. It came with stone-hard “malt balls” that failed to yield to knife or fork.
I took one of the balls home. A steak knife severed it in two, but my teeth didn’t make a dent. A hammer did the trick."
Ouch.
NY Post...Not our type of Guy
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