A Deep Burning Sensation

It was May 1, 2004 when Dairy Queen first unleashed the hounds.

Something new was about to slap the market and unsuspecting America was still sleeping. While the stomachs of millions snored loudly in hunger, an informed sub-culture had discovered the greatest fast food burger known to man, the Flame Thrower.

The government obviously did not want the people of this country to know about it, because after the burger was advertised, everybody’s minds were erased and no one remembered what a Flame Thrower was. I took a recent poll and only nine percent of the people had ever tasted or even heard of the Flame Thrower…and the only person making up that nine percent was myself.
Even Wendy’s is in on the conspiracy. Why do you think in Stebenville, OH they that built that monstrosity on Sunset Blvd., hiding Dairy Queen, when they already have a restaurant just next door in Wintersville, OH? Because Wendy’s had to build the New Berlin wall to keep the hungry zombies that we are from feasting relentlessly in a joyful, spicy frenzy.
So now, even though I am risking my happy life to tell you this, I will inform you why the Flame Thrower hamburger is one part of the best fast food meal you will ever consume. The basic breakdown is this: two all-American, all-beef patties, whole-leaf lettuce, tomato, spicy jalapeño-flavored bacon, pepper jack cheese, and chipotle mayonnaise spiked with cayenne pepper sauce. Order this burger in a meal with a Pepsi and fries (which you can dip in Bullseye Brand BBQ Sauce) and you have the best fast food meal in North America. I am near speechless. First of all “jalapeño-flavored bacon” is a rare delicacy that you will not find on any other restaurant sandwich. It is only obtained from an endangered species of Argentinean pygmy pigs, which have been fed nothing but jalapeños since birth.
Also, the “chipotle mayonnaise spiked with cayenne pepper sauce” is so much a Turkish delight that men have died for its sake. The late Dr. Mcmasters, a Russian scientist and winner of a Nobel Prize, loved this sauce so much that he attempted to recreate it in his laboratory, but mysteriously turned up deceased the morning after he had completed it. Luckily for us, he posted it on an encrypted website before he died. You can see it at http://www.recipezaar.com/108577. The one drawback to this burning nirvana is that most of our bodies are not accustomed to handling this burger. The first time you attempt one, your stomach acids may rage in a torrent from the burn of the elements, and your heart may flame-up like a wooden birdhouse, but after time your body will adapt. In any case, I could go on for another 500 words about why this is the best fast food burger, but I think I would rather end with a quote from the great Scott Lane, long time employee of Dairy Queen: “It’s a good sandwich.” And what Scott Lane says, goes.

The Wonders of the Heel

Who could have known that one meatball heel could feed a family of ten? Along with its sidekick, bread, the heel has kicked its way into food history by launching itself into esophagus’ worldwide. Served by many and often ignored, the heel carries the power to transform hunger into gluttony in seconds. Only the bravest of men dare order this robust delicacy.
During my first experience at the Ville Restaurant, in the Fort Steuben mall, I stubbornly refused to order a meal. I claimed to be full and ordered a small plate of fries. I was already finished with my course when I noticed that my acquaintance at the time was happily clamping down on his meatball heel. Feeling an itch of wonder, my arm lunged towards the half-eaten heel, quickly withdrawing so not to be noticed…but it was too late. Everyone stared in amazement and disgust. This time my love for food had gone too far and I knew it. Remember, the number one rule of eating someone else’s food is to ask before you take. Yet out of charity I was offered the rest of the heel. On the outside it all seemed so innocent, yet on the inside I was lavishing in carnal delight. Ferociously devouring the rest of the heel, I fell in love.
Its not just balls of meat stuffed in a big loaf of bread, it’s more. These days I cant get away with manipulating food from acquaintances. I will always remember my first meatball heel at the Ville Restaurant and it didn’t belong to me.
Lately, I’ve had an itch to blast into the past. To rekindle my gurgly feelings of days gone, I felt impelled to revisit the places I had haunted before. So I headed up to Mugsy's Cafe and more, once again returning to that old familiar Pleasureland of colossal, crusty, meat-infused sandwiches. The last time I was here, my taste buds had danced a wild slam-dance of happiness when I ordered the Mugsy’s Philly cheese steak. This time, I ordered my own famous meatball heel. A triplet of acquaintances gathered around the table remembering good times. Who would have known this journey would take me to the famous West Virginia hub? I would have to say without lying that it was the finest heel I have ever had. Its texture soft and crispy as my saliva broke down the sugars in the bread and its insides, the meatballs themselves, needed a little more help from the acids of my stomach. And boy, my bowels boiled in delight. Along with a side of fries and gravy, a meatball heel can fill you up in seconds. And remember you’ll always remember your first one. So if you take the time, I would like each of my readers to write about their first experiences with a meatball heel in the comments section of this blog. Till next time, eat well and live your life like a bull on the run.

Hunting Down Wild Meat

I was away long enough from the Ohio Valley Region. Yes, my veins were pulsing for good food. As two paths diverged in a yellow wood, I took the one less traveled outside Wheeling, West Virginia. There, I sought out an unexpected gem of a meal fit for a woodsman. Cabela’s: “The World’s Foremost Outfitter for Hunting, Fishing, and Outdoor Gear” had my gem.
With glass-eyed animals, frozen in time, keeping watch over my clumsy stumble through the store (lambasted with guns, knives, fishing poles and bait) my nose knew there was food waiting to be swallowed down my fat throat. I glided upstairs (yes, this den has two floors) and found myself staring at the “Grill and Café” area. Embedded in stained wood with large steel slabs layered on top, this was the home of a Wildman butcher. My heart stopped in faint fear and my stomach cried like a lost buck as I stared at the strange menu. There was so much. I could feel my heart start to pound again as I raced over the list of “Deli Sandwiches” ranging from Caribou to Wild Boar. Flashes of recently hunted animals, being dragged into Cabela’s back door, banged in my head as I saw more items such as Ostrich meat, and Venison sausage. The jungle drum in my chest beat a steady rhythm that caused me to step forward to the counter and ask for an Ostrich sandwich on Whole Wheat bread. The meat, looking like roast beef, was slapped on the bread and a medley of cheese and vegetables were layered on top. I stood there, waiting like a caveman in a saber tooth loincloth, slightly depressed that I was not hunting down my own Ostrich with my wooden club, but eager to gorge myself with the flesh of a wild bird.
My sandwich was done and I added some less-prehistoric food to my meal, like Sun Chips and Dasani. I ogred my way to the pay counter, sat down, then ripped my way through the fresh meat. The sensation of digesting this exotic animal savagely coursed through my body and I felt united to my ancestors of old, running through the savannas of Africa, spear fishing off the coast of Spain, or setting traps for unsuspecting rabbits in the forests of Bavaria. Yes, this is where I longed to be. This was the time machine in which I could feel my primordial roots run deep into the rich soil of West Virginia.
I finished my sandwich, chips, and washed it down with my bottled water, cleansing everything like a fresh dunk in a cold river, and left that Mecca of outdoorsiness with a full belly and a satisfied face. For about six dollars I was able to experience the wild food that my suburbanly domesticated family never slopped on my plate. This was not only a meal, but a venture through the undiscovered country of hunting and fishing that I never knew was out there.