Last night the Simpson/Hemstead propaganda minister and I sampled the local wares at a gathering of food trucks. For those of you who have been living under a rock for a couple years, a food truck is a fad in which people make food on trucks that is claimed to be gourmet, but only in the vaguest sense. Besides how gourmet can sliders REALLY be?
Anyhow, while discussing all things propaganda with Mr. Minister, we happened across the Fresh Fries Truck sitting inconspicuously in the corner with a gaggle of indecisive, semi-thuggish early college-aged whippersnappers in front of it.
That thing on the right is a dipping sauce, not an artist's rendering of what your turd will look like after eating here. Yes I asked.
I thought, “hey, I like fries,” and I’d seen some of these trucks that do amazing things with fries, pulled pork fries and so forth. Full meal fries, not side dishes.
I wait in line behind the whippersnappers while they indecisively scan the menu with indecisive indecisiveness, and this goes on for 5 minutes. Asking “you gonna order” only got, “yup” back from whom I assume was the leader of these misguided children. And then they ordered. A lot. A whole lot. Way too much for the number of people in their collective.
Finally my turn. I scan the menu through my aging eyes for the first time. There’s no full meal fries here. No sir. This place is a den of flavorful fries with dippin’ sauces and cheeses. Buffalo sauce and feta crumbles. And the thing that caught my attention, sweet potato fries with a scoop of nutella and peanut butter, dusted in powdered sugar.
I HEARD my taste buds say “Oh shit,” with the flabbergasted enthusiasm that one might have for winning the lottery on a randomly purchased ticket. I then felt my colon grumble, “Oh shit,” from beneath my shirt. His exclamation had the tinge of a middle class homeowner on the first day off he’s had in months sitting on his deck on a fine Alderaan summer evening gazing through the cheap telescope his children bought. They bought it as a father’s day present three weeks before, and tonight was the first night he’d had a chance to use it. In the sky was a weird metal moon-thing with a cone of green light forming above a freakishly large crater on it’s surface. Somewhere deep in his meager midichlorian count he could hear the phrase “you may fiyah when ready”. His drink fell to the ground, the glass exploded like a supernova and he said, “oh shit.” This is the same “oh shit,” my colon had just uttered.
That's no moon....
As I found myself inexplicably ordering this gooey culinary Death Star I began to realize what this place was; this was a rolling stoner snack wagon. This was a diesel dream lorry come to tantalize the THC lobes with unearthly combinations of goodness.
My colon knew it was a lost cause to argue, it would have to deal with the brunt of this flavorific assault, and much like our Alderaanian homeowner, could only wait out it’s impending doom with the knowledge that the end of days was at hand.
My taste buds were electrified, challenged at every bite by the three elfstones of flavor; sugar, salt, and fat. We decided we would have to have these again, the propaganda minister and me, but we couldn’t help wondering what kind of unimaginable joy those indecisive stoner kids were going through at that very moment as I watched them pool their dwindling cash for a second pass .
So if you’re high off you ass on pot OR weed, or you just want to experience a damned fine flavor explosion, you should check out the Fresh Fries Truck.