My first order of bidness this morning is to thank the lovely Q for the brand spanking new header we got going on here at Sorryless. I asked her for something clean and cool, and she delivered . . righteously.
Imma dish up a foodie post after a rather prolonged dry spell. Yeah, it seems me and Linds B were really just a one trick pony express when it came to foodie posts, but seeing as how it was the legendary Cubano we were shaking loose . . hells yes we’re good with that. Mariano Rivera milked his one pitch arsenal of a cut fastball to Cooperstown, so it’s plenty understandable that peeps still mention our Cubano posts.
And now that I’ve matriculated your appetite into a certain school of thought, lemme just temper your excitement some by letting you know that I’m reviewing a fast food burger. More specifically, the Impossible Whopper that Burger King began rolling out this past spring.
Mi abuelo spoke his plant based logic with yuca and platanos, partnering ’em up with lechon and arroz con gandules, and whiskey. Plenty of whiskey. As far as he was concerned, the idea of tucking plants into a burger would’ve been akin to kissing Fidel Castro’s ring.
I probably had Alberto in mind when I was chilling to the old town propers of Celia Cruz, Benny More, Joseito Fernandez and company on Sunday morning. I partnered up my Cafe Bustelo with plenty of leche and azucar, seeing as how I have Habana on speed dial when it comes to my java tooth. And then I made pancakes for the girl and me. I dressed hers in cinnamon and mine with a couple spicy eggs with the top down.
After checking on the Miami score and finding my Dolphins in the hole by a score of 7-3 to the Washington Dumpster Fireballs, I invented a few curse words and then told the girl I was contemplating the Impossible Whopper.
“You in?” I asked.
“I guess?” Was her reply.
“Coo as schoo! Imma get us a bunch of those onion rings that have no onions in ’em too. Maybe we can do a science experiment!”
“Small . . . not a bunch. Thank you,”
“Okay mom,” I said, grabbing my keys and high fiving Mr Speaker on the way out.
I hopped in the car and threw on some Black Keys. And then I started thinking about my favorite Burger King moments. It wasn’t easy, since I’m simpatico with Vincent Vega in that I’m more Arches than Crown when I dabble in the recreational facility of minute burgers.
Alas, I was able to rummage a scant few memories out of the way back (bun pun intended) and I ended up with a top three list.
1- Me and Ellen Bauer hitting a Burger King drive thru after seeing Risky Business. After which she took all her Tom Cruise flash-dance fever out on me in the backseat of her old man’s Riviera. Making me a Tom Cruise fan for life.
2- Going to Flatbush with the old man to hit some balls at the batting cages. We’d picked up some Burger King on the way. And then I dropped our shakes on the way in and then the old man jumped his fucking height while saying motherfucker in a couple different languages. And then I was on the ground laughing my ass off.
3- Me and the boys hitting Five Towns on the way back from an Islanders game after watching Wayne Gretzky play hockey. Joey wanted to break his fucking knee caps, and so he wasn’t cool with my opinion that we’d just witnessed the greatest player to ever take the ice.
So yeah, Burger King ain’t my jam. But riding shotgun with a professional vegetarian supplied me with the plenty mucho to some gusto. After which the Impossible became a Mission worth figuring out. With or without Tom Cruise. Who, oh by the way, made the Mission Impossible movies worth it, all by his crazy lonesome. But that’s another post for another time.
I rolled up and parked, because I ain’t familiar with fast food menus so I always need to win my knowledge from the inside. After which I ordered up two Impossibles, two small onion rings and a ten piece chicken nuggets. The nuggets were insurance in the event the Impossible sucked balls. Of course, I was still gonna eat my insurance, because it’s a scientific fact that fast food turns into concrete if not consumed within thirty minutes.
Back home, I shuffled up the deck and we toasted our Impossibles to those highest of hopes Old Blue Eyes once crooned on. Diving into our first bites, we vanquished our respective midday growls sans cutlery or pride. And then we tallied up the score with mathematics (her thing) and silly reasoning (mine). And we arrived at the same verdict.
It was a hot minute of ayt. Passing grade but nothing more than that.
She thought it a minor league version of the major league remedies she can cook up with nary a moo in the making. Good but not great. Fine but not fabulous. Possible, with no need for the exclamatory Im. And I was thankful for having ordered up those nuggets, because from the first bite of my Who-Burger, I knew what my taste buds were buying. And damn if mi abuelito wasn’t right about sticking to the real thing.
I miss that OG.