Armed with a rough plan (most simply said, it was to "go to america, eat shit and die") but even more importantly the will, four of us (myself, my brother eric, dana, and ex-vegetarian ryan) set upon a path chosen by few and headed south to wrestle the american economy.
Knowing that a cold start could lead to trouble, we picked up a 4 pack of sausage mcmuffins to get our engines firing, even while resisting the temptation that were hashbrowns and oddly formed eggs that love to find their way into these breakfast sandwiches. There was greater work to do, and focus was key.
Having decided to state shopping as the reason for our southernly excursion, the border guard seemed dubious, proclaiming that it usually required the company of a rather attractive woman to coerce him to go shopping and proceeded to question me about my job and my US work visa. Turning on the charm that is both my gift and my curse, I said to him "honestly, I'm coming down for the mcrib which we can't get in canada". His face brightened from the revelation and he said "Good food is worth a trip huh?" and I either boldly or foolishly said "I don't know if I'd call it good". He waved us onward and we breathed sighs of relief, eager to reach our first american destination.
We drove until we saw the sign that declared the existance of a mcdonald's and we entered with fingers crossed and breath bated. A cursory glance revealed no mcrib on the menu and the confused look on the girl's face behind the counter did nothing to ease our tension. We were being denied god's greatest gift to man; the flesh of pig slathered in bbq sauce and tucked inside a cocoon of white bun. Ryan ordered a 10 pack of chicken nuggets to ease our grief and we headed back to the car with hopes dashed.
A few more miles down the road we tried a second mcdonald's and again we were denied. Our fate was clear now; we were to report to skippers for the all you can eat shrimp meal.
Skippers is easy to spot from a distance; they have a huge fake yellow anchor that beckons lovers of the open sea to a place where they can come to indulge in all those beings that dwell on the sea floor and dare to be fried in breading. We asked several questions about the rules of engagement; Did we have to eat the fish?, did we have to eat the fries?, could I also have some clams?, will you be upset if I vomit in your restaurant?. Satisfied, we all ordered the same thing. All you can eat fish and shrimp, which includes fries and chowder.
The chowder came first and it was actually not disgusting. In fact, I would dare to say it was fairly good. Not in the gourmet sense that I tend to judge many things I care to eat, but it was flavorful, had good texture, and was fairly warm. I tried not to think of the salt and fat content while wrestling with the somewhat undersized soupspoon that they had offered us. Soon the fries, fish, and shrimp were upon us and we dove in with great abandon.
Our plans differed slightly, from Dana's steady pace to my "put it down before your stomach can tell you that you're full" technique. The difficulty when eating mass quanities of deep fried low grade seafood is that you're eating mass quantities of deep fried low grade seafood. You might try to lie to yourself but your body knows better. Soon I couldn't really taste anything anymore; It was all just fried breading and either tartar or cocktail sauce.
None of us wanted to eat our fries but that was part of the deal. They want to see your baskets empty before they dump more chum on your plate. Dana being the hero that he is wrapped up two wads of fries in napkins, stuffed them up his sleeves and went to the washroom where he dumped them into the trash and buried them in paper towels. We managed to get two more baskets of shrimp and bowls of chowder but our enthusiasm waned along with our appetites. Eating a lot of shitty food is very hard work and the dour weather did little to motivate us. We knew this wasn't our last stop of the day, so we finished what we had and headed out where we took a moment for our pride and shame to wrestle with each other. It was a monumental and stupid thing we had just done, but these are the acts that will be etched into our tombstones.
We drove down to the fairhaven district of bellingham where we browsed toy shops and bookstores and eventually found ourselves in a tavern nursing beers and quizzing each other with the supplied trivial pursuit decks. Dana informed us that the most skilled mechanic on the A-Team was a man named Bernard Aaron Baracus, more commonly referred to as B.A. While he did admit to being full of shit, Bernard Aaron seemed so fitting for Mr. T's character that I have added that information to my brain as canon. As Ryan finished his beer which tasted of guinness with hints of ashtray, bovril, and death, we packed our bags and hit the road once again.
We found ourselves in downtown bellingham having cayenne chocolate ice cream at the mallard before I was pressing my face to the glass of a closed store full of zombie and meat t-shirts. I uttered my dismay that the shop was closed before a voice appeared behind us and declared himself to be the owner of the store who happened to be working in the back and opened the doors for us to shop privately. A few wicked t-shirts, stickers, and toys later, we gave our thanks for the hospitality and headed out in search of dinner.
Where does one go after having eaten and mcdonald's and skippers already? The answer seemed obvious; Olive Garden. One of my favourite tv memories of all time is from ABC's reality show 'the bachelor' where the most adorable bachelorette asks the Firestone heir "do you like olive garden?". His answer of 'no' elicited a "You don't like italian food???" comment which almost put me in tears of hysterical laughter. Olive Garden my friends, is not italian food. To say that it is is an insult to the cooks of Italia who pride themselves on fresh local ingredients and their simple, honest preparation. What the Olive Garden does represent though, is food entertainment.
Upon learning that the never-ending pasta bowl was no longer available, I asked Jenny our waitress what she else could recommend in a low-quality, high-volume item. My inability not to laugh betrayed my seriousness and she recommended the tour of italy which seemed a disgustingly massive combination of lasagne, chicken parmagiana and alfredo laden noodles. I settled on an only slightly less gross sounding dish while dana went for the jugular in the form of their 20oz T-Bone steak and eric and ryan both ordered the short rib.
During our meal, I asked if my companions felt like they were being treated like family at the Olive Garden (which we had started calling the O-Gizzle by this point) as their commercials claim they will, to which dana replied "you mean the waiters are going to come over here, get drunk and punch my mom?". Our uncomfortable silence following that comment sounded to some like boisterous laughter and we soon had our bill in hand. I apologized to our waitress for our obnoxiousness to which said we were her best table of the night. When she added "I need some spunk in my day", we all recognized that she had just pitched the ball clear over the plate but none of us could take a swing. Why should we? She had just given us the punch line herself.
We wound our way back home in the darkness of the night, clearing the Canadian border easily without the need to show our passports or have gloved fingers explore our inner workings. It was a long day, as fun and as stupid as any I've had this year, punctuated by outbursts of completely inappropriate hilarity. I can't wait to do this again.
Knowing that a cold start could lead to trouble, we picked up a 4 pack of sausage mcmuffins to get our engines firing, even while resisting the temptation that were hashbrowns and oddly formed eggs that love to find their way into these breakfast sandwiches. There was greater work to do, and focus was key.
Having decided to state shopping as the reason for our southernly excursion, the border guard seemed dubious, proclaiming that it usually required the company of a rather attractive woman to coerce him to go shopping and proceeded to question me about my job and my US work visa. Turning on the charm that is both my gift and my curse, I said to him "honestly, I'm coming down for the mcrib which we can't get in canada". His face brightened from the revelation and he said "Good food is worth a trip huh?" and I either boldly or foolishly said "I don't know if I'd call it good". He waved us onward and we breathed sighs of relief, eager to reach our first american destination.
We drove until we saw the sign that declared the existance of a mcdonald's and we entered with fingers crossed and breath bated. A cursory glance revealed no mcrib on the menu and the confused look on the girl's face behind the counter did nothing to ease our tension. We were being denied god's greatest gift to man; the flesh of pig slathered in bbq sauce and tucked inside a cocoon of white bun. Ryan ordered a 10 pack of chicken nuggets to ease our grief and we headed back to the car with hopes dashed.
A few more miles down the road we tried a second mcdonald's and again we were denied. Our fate was clear now; we were to report to skippers for the all you can eat shrimp meal.
Skippers is easy to spot from a distance; they have a huge fake yellow anchor that beckons lovers of the open sea to a place where they can come to indulge in all those beings that dwell on the sea floor and dare to be fried in breading. We asked several questions about the rules of engagement; Did we have to eat the fish?, did we have to eat the fries?, could I also have some clams?, will you be upset if I vomit in your restaurant?. Satisfied, we all ordered the same thing. All you can eat fish and shrimp, which includes fries and chowder.
The chowder came first and it was actually not disgusting. In fact, I would dare to say it was fairly good. Not in the gourmet sense that I tend to judge many things I care to eat, but it was flavorful, had good texture, and was fairly warm. I tried not to think of the salt and fat content while wrestling with the somewhat undersized soupspoon that they had offered us. Soon the fries, fish, and shrimp were upon us and we dove in with great abandon.
Our plans differed slightly, from Dana's steady pace to my "put it down before your stomach can tell you that you're full" technique. The difficulty when eating mass quanities of deep fried low grade seafood is that you're eating mass quantities of deep fried low grade seafood. You might try to lie to yourself but your body knows better. Soon I couldn't really taste anything anymore; It was all just fried breading and either tartar or cocktail sauce.
None of us wanted to eat our fries but that was part of the deal. They want to see your baskets empty before they dump more chum on your plate. Dana being the hero that he is wrapped up two wads of fries in napkins, stuffed them up his sleeves and went to the washroom where he dumped them into the trash and buried them in paper towels. We managed to get two more baskets of shrimp and bowls of chowder but our enthusiasm waned along with our appetites. Eating a lot of shitty food is very hard work and the dour weather did little to motivate us. We knew this wasn't our last stop of the day, so we finished what we had and headed out where we took a moment for our pride and shame to wrestle with each other. It was a monumental and stupid thing we had just done, but these are the acts that will be etched into our tombstones.
We drove down to the fairhaven district of bellingham where we browsed toy shops and bookstores and eventually found ourselves in a tavern nursing beers and quizzing each other with the supplied trivial pursuit decks. Dana informed us that the most skilled mechanic on the A-Team was a man named Bernard Aaron Baracus, more commonly referred to as B.A. While he did admit to being full of shit, Bernard Aaron seemed so fitting for Mr. T's character that I have added that information to my brain as canon. As Ryan finished his beer which tasted of guinness with hints of ashtray, bovril, and death, we packed our bags and hit the road once again.
We found ourselves in downtown bellingham having cayenne chocolate ice cream at the mallard before I was pressing my face to the glass of a closed store full of zombie and meat t-shirts. I uttered my dismay that the shop was closed before a voice appeared behind us and declared himself to be the owner of the store who happened to be working in the back and opened the doors for us to shop privately. A few wicked t-shirts, stickers, and toys later, we gave our thanks for the hospitality and headed out in search of dinner.
Where does one go after having eaten and mcdonald's and skippers already? The answer seemed obvious; Olive Garden. One of my favourite tv memories of all time is from ABC's reality show 'the bachelor' where the most adorable bachelorette asks the Firestone heir "do you like olive garden?". His answer of 'no' elicited a "You don't like italian food???" comment which almost put me in tears of hysterical laughter. Olive Garden my friends, is not italian food. To say that it is is an insult to the cooks of Italia who pride themselves on fresh local ingredients and their simple, honest preparation. What the Olive Garden does represent though, is food entertainment.
Upon learning that the never-ending pasta bowl was no longer available, I asked Jenny our waitress what she else could recommend in a low-quality, high-volume item. My inability not to laugh betrayed my seriousness and she recommended the tour of italy which seemed a disgustingly massive combination of lasagne, chicken parmagiana and alfredo laden noodles. I settled on an only slightly less gross sounding dish while dana went for the jugular in the form of their 20oz T-Bone steak and eric and ryan both ordered the short rib.
During our meal, I asked if my companions felt like they were being treated like family at the Olive Garden (which we had started calling the O-Gizzle by this point) as their commercials claim they will, to which dana replied "you mean the waiters are going to come over here, get drunk and punch my mom?". Our uncomfortable silence following that comment sounded to some like boisterous laughter and we soon had our bill in hand. I apologized to our waitress for our obnoxiousness to which said we were her best table of the night. When she added "I need some spunk in my day", we all recognized that she had just pitched the ball clear over the plate but none of us could take a swing. Why should we? She had just given us the punch line herself.
We wound our way back home in the darkness of the night, clearing the Canadian border easily without the need to show our passports or have gloved fingers explore our inner workings. It was a long day, as fun and as stupid as any I've had this year, punctuated by outbursts of completely inappropriate hilarity. I can't wait to do this again.
