Archives for posts with tag: restaurants

margaburger

East Bay is Pig Latin for BEAST. I really wanted to find The Beast’s best burger, without having to follow any hipster foodie-type counseling.

I thought about taking on this very important task… but, I’m large. I can’t go around researching the quality of hamburgers while I still intend to fit my fat ass into an affordable compact vehicle.

That said, I believe I found the best hamburger in The Beast by accident.

My son and I met a group of persons that I enjoy on the patio at El Charro in Lafayette. I ordered a kids’ burger for my Prince who is all of three years old. The dish I ordered for myself was a complete abortion. I couldn’t even look down. While he was busy emptying the salt and pepper shakers, I counted 10 Mississippi.

Baby Boy just wasn’t hungry.

I dove in.

I had my very first Hamburgasm. It was the best burger I’ve ever had… (and I don’t care who you are. I’ve eaten more hamburgers than you.)

But, I mean, People… I was really very hungry… and we all know that Hunger is the bestest Chef of all the chefs.

So I went again last night. I watched in sick satisfaction as my little Prince completely ignored his meal. After the check was paid, I put that culinary work of art into my purse and hurriedly hauled my ass home. I waited an eternity for Baby Boy to fall asleep, so that El Charro Kid Burger and I could be alone. By the time that happened the bun was but a sponge, but it didn’t matter… because of that beloved beef patty.

That beef patty was everything.

…I believe the Holy Grail of Hamburgers is right here, in the belly of The Beast.

101 Things I Love

I wake up one magnificent Monday morning (1) all spry with the good kind of dirty hair (2) to the adorable sounds of Chinese children (3) singing Red Rover, Red Rover (4) in the schoolyard (5) across the street. I remind myself that I am fortunate enough to be gainfully employed (6); to have the opportunity to meet lots of lunatics (7) and earn boobfuls of cash (8) nightly. I fantasize for a second that my pillow (9) is John Kennedy Jr.’s (10) crotch area (11) and give him a tender good morning kiss. Then I hoist my considerable rear end out of my beloved bed (12), and skip over to the finest greasy spoon in the world, the Cup and Saucer (13) still proudly wearing my jammies (14). Stavros (15), who is seriously sexful, prepares me a special Sanka (16) with a splash of skim in one of those waxy, we are happy to serve you cups (17). I lap that caffeinated deliciousness up walking home along Hester Street (18), but not before making a cameo at the corner laundromat to scoop my freshly folded slutwear (19). New York (20) is so alive today, and all the freaks (21) and geeks (22) are out wearing muu muus (23) and muscle shirts (24) while its menacing teens are chained up in their PS’s (25) learning how to read (26) and write (27). When I return home, I sit all ladylike upon my luxurious toilet seat (28) made of silky synthetic stuffing (29) and priceless pink vinyl (30). I take a very meaningful and meditative crap (31) while i read from my dog eared Dictionary of Serial Killers (32) with a parcel of Charmin (33) tucked between my chins. Feeling accomplished, I call up one of my Bay Area Bitches (34) for an impromptu exchange of evil gossip (35), and then put on a DVD of Jane Fonda (36) burned illegally by my mother (37) who loves me (38). I push confidently through several sets of Donkey Kicks (39). After a 90 minute shower (40) I’m ready to pick up today’s New York Post (41) from Eastern Market (42) on Grand Street (43) on my way to work. I also stop at Jin (44) on Broome Street (45) to power down a bento box (46) while I enjoy reading Page Six (47) and overtip the underpaid darling (48) who serves me. I walk around for a while listening on my ishuffle (49) to Olivia Newton John (50) sing the most beautiful song ever recorded, Please Mr. Please (51)… I discover a newly opened QiGong Tui Na massage parlor (52), pet a puggle pup (53), joke around with a quint of queers (54) who need directions to Katz’s Deli (55) and an old man in a seersucker suit (56), asks me where he can get himself a KNISH (57)… Glorious! I look at the time and quickly catch a coconut curry scented cab (58) and careen up First Avenue. Every light is go go green (59), the windows are down and my hair blows around not even getting stuck in my tawdry red lipstick (60). I parade through the restaurant’s entrance as if it were the runway of a Pat Field (61) fashion show. I breeze past the chicly dressed hostess (62), who is are hard at work (63) organizing tonight’s floorplan. I give that bitch a wink and high-five. My uber industrious Barback, Johnny Pineapples (64) whom I would give my runner-up kidney… calls me Mommy and tells me I’m gorgeous. He gets his face (65) licked liberally, after he does like a true stallion and effortlessly fetches me ice and all other stuff that is heavy, while I savor the gorgeousness of rare filet the kitchen staff (66) has prepared for us as a thank you (67) for all of our hard work. I would kiss the Chef (68) if it wasn’t very busy right now eating very delicious red meat (69). The night starts flawlessly. Everything is in order (70) and the piece I’m currently stalking sends me an onslaught of perverse text messages (71). Everyone at the bar (72) rules in some way; local litigators (73) working late and expensing (74), commuting marrieds (75) medicating themselves before joining their faithful spouses (76) and pubescent kids (77) for dinner, local bartenders (78) getting lit before or after their shifts, local homo (79) and hetero singles (80) perusing for tail. The sliders (81) are new on the menu, so I sell them like hotcakes (82). I am salesgirl extraordinaire. Y Chromosomes wearing suits (83) ask me for my number all night either because I am either fertile (84) or look fierce (85), you tell me… The night flies by like the quintessential Q train (86) and I leave the restaurant with a serious stripperwad (87), and meet my peeps (88) at PJ Clarke’s (89) where Doug (90) serves me a Stinger (91). Hilarious stories from the night abound (92) and I leave, my cheeks hurt from hardy har har’s (93). All of them are all so different, and we are like a gang together… I cherish those dorks and all of our fun times (94). Also I want to have sex (95) with them (96). We all get taxis in different directions and when I arrive home beautifully buzzed, and my apartment (97) is safe, clean and rent stabilized (98). Boozer the bear (99) snuggles me to sleep and I pray to God, that power lesbian (100) in the sky, for this fantastical day. LIfe (101) is good.

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