I find myself on the receiving end of very few negative culinary experiences; I can probably count them on one finger. Like that time my dad, brother, and I took a road trip to Normal, Illinois (a town that baffled us by living up to its name) and ate at Gumby’s* pizza. Apparently Gumby and his equine pal were the main, ingredient in that undercooked, malleable pie of horrors. You want your cheese to stretch, not your everything else. I also had a really terrible crab sandwich once, but that might’ve had something to do with my espousing conspicuously liberal views regarding North Korea in a family-friendly environment. I think I deserved that one.
At any rate, there are few times when I eat something that I can honestly and truly consider “bad”, especially when my tastes allow me to consume most foods as-is with nary a thought: When it’s good, it’s good. When it’s bland, it’s good. So believe me when I say (now that I’ve established Ultimate Credibility TM) that I had some truly fucking terrible Mandarin Chicken.
My odyssey began with a decision to get Stingray’s (formerly the extra-crispy Shell’s) Seafood rather than perusing the multitude of menus and going with something that was the Special.
Never get the Special. They’ve got something up their sleeves.
I’d previously dined at Stingray’s with some friends, munching on an inoffensive, if extra-dry, crab (?) po’boy. I decided to give them another shot.
Never give them another shot. They’ll break your heart. And o, my friends, my heart was broken by a wench dressed in soggy broccolli.
The siren first went off when I opened the bag and removed a take-out tray filled with dim, brown matter sprinkled with pebbles of chicken. Six or seven stunted pebbles of chicken (maybe one inch in diameter). I imagine these were the remnants of the chickens that played RISK and learned how to use an abacus while their bigger, heartier pals were chasing tail(-feather) and getting jacked on ‘roids for their future careers in the acid baths of fast-food patrons’ stomachs. Somehow they got mixed in with the cuisine-destined plebes ’cause they didn’t want to go to pharmacology school so I’m gonna drop out and travel the country AND FUCK YOU DAD I NEVER WANTED YOUR LIFE ANYWAY.
And this is how they ended up. A little tasty, though. Wasted potential is the best seasoning.
I already mentioned the broccoli was soggy, and I guess there’s not much to elaborate on there. It was fucking soggy broccoli. Every frowny six-year old with a mom gettin’ a little too crazy with the steamer knows how I felt at that moment. My inner child reminded me that they’re still very much alive. And they still hate (overcooked) vegetables. I’m with you, little lady- er, guy.
I have to do the bed of rice and sauce together, not just ’cause typing is too much for my wee fingers (’cause it is), but ’cause they were an inseperable abomination. Rather than being left not fully mixed, or completely separate as is the way of all civilized dishes, they were fused together in a gluey brown gruel which, with a spoonful, reminded me of everything that was wrong with the world.
Why did it have to come to this? Why is the first image that popped into my head one of the Marlboro man, hat blocking the setting sun, chewing on a length of grass, perfect teeth forming the words:
“That’s my chew spit, y’know.”
Why is the Marlboro man wearing assless chaps?
Hmm…
It was wholeheartedly terrible. The brownie that came with the Special was pretty decent, though. I get the feeling that’s ’cause Sarah Lee was pinch hitting. It’s such a shame about the main course, considering the waitresses at least put on the facade of friendliness. Disservice with a smile?
*Gumby’s pizza is no longer horrible. At least outside of Normal, IL.
