So where do I find myself on Christmas Eve? Jetting off to the remote island of Tasmania, within arm’s reach of Australia where Santa’s lips would turn to dry husks. A man dressed like Indiana Jones sits at the table with me. I wonder if he is for real. He is my guide and smells of cannabis and lizard feces.
I am in a strange abode with a Hispanic woman snake-eyeing me with peek-a-boos from the arabesque curtain that veils the kitchen from the guests.The waiter looks like a malnourished camel, his eyes dripping of browned perspiration.
The ostrich steak has a rough texture strewn with tassels of heat, retentive flabs. The unkempt meat is ‘Darling let me give you a massage with my broken fingernails’ on the teeth I rely on for mincing. The plain, apple chutney glaze was not home-made. No! It was from an unholy jar, like it was straight from the kitchen of Faulty Towers! I spent my formative food critic years working for a food critic consortium who taught me how to detect these things. It now seems silly to learn such a thing, it comes naturally those with the Force.
Other than that, it was just about alright, a stocky bird, one for those who like their meat with some subculture, desert personality, with a coarse hue; for those of you are rough diamonds slurp it up like bitches! For now me and Indiana Jones are off for some Soviet delicacies, Crikey! Catch you later bitches!
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