Alfred P.'s Profile

I don't much believe in updates, writing them or otherwise.  This may be why my computer is flooded with viruses and why I still wear high tops with parachute pants.  Phooey.

But I digress.  There come times when change is warranted, necessary even, like for parking meters, vagrants, or not wearing parachute pants anymore.  As such, one review cannot possibly contain the greatness that is Gloria's Cafe and so I must write an update.

For example, how did I get away with a singular mention of their sangria?  Or without mentioning their garlic and lime marinated grilled shrimp?  Or their siete mares soup?  It's like neglecting to insert the American Revolution in history books.  

My girlfriend is in love with that siete mares soup.  Literally, it looked like she made love to it.  She was elbow deep in that bowl with broth streaming down her forearm.  She tore apart the crab legs with the ferocity of a vagrant tearing into my parachute pants for change.

I did the same with their tamales, except with a fork and in a civilized manner.  I kept one in my cheek like a chipmunk to enjoy later.

Anyhow, there's a chance that I'll write another update for Gloria's in the future as I plan on taking my parents there, possibly to eat.  I won't, however, relinquish my parachute pants because I am much too legit to quit, my friends.

A word, or several, of advice to those who plan on holding business meetings: don't hold them at Cafe Beaujolais.  My girlfriend and I decided to discuss her business venture over dinner and I, stupidly, chose a place with food so good I may as well have chosen a strip bar as a distraction.  I mean, the food is so good it renders you stupid.  It's like trying to hold a meaningful conversation while drunk, which I was, so you can imagine how doubly I was stricken stupid.

We perused our menus and listened to the specials of the day, but, being drunk, I couldn't make out the French accent.  It sounded delicious, but just about everything sounds delicious with a French accent.  

I was about to dispense unknown amounts of knowledge to my girlfriend regarding her business and how she could cut costs by "importing" women from other countries when the escargot came out.  Instead of dispensing invaluable advice, I decided to woo her with that S Car Go joke from Trading Places except I enunciated the T at the end of escargot because I was stupid with liquor and, now, delicious snails.  They were swimming in garlic-parsley butter and were more divine than, I'm sure, an actual S Car Got.  We dipped our bread (which I wished were warmed), and again attempted to talk business.

"No, you can't charge per pound," I told her as we waited for our main course.

"But the bigger he is, the more effort--," she was cut off by my telling her to shut up because our food was here.  I ordered steak with a peppercorn sauce and she ordered a seafood pasta.  The potatoes on my plate were perhaps the best I'd ever had and also, perhaps, they were lyonnaise with some awesome parmesan sauce.

Upon finishing my entree, I was so bloated that my diaphragm couldn't suck enough air into my lungs for me to form complete sentences.  I resorted, instead, to communicating in Morse code but found that futile because neither of us know Morse code.  Instead, we were just tapping the table like irregular idiots attempting to decipher what song we were drumming.  

I concluded our business meeting as our new language barrier stifled any progress.  I wished her luck with her "massage" business and stole her leftover pasta which I enjoyed the following day.  It was just as good.

I'm not a big fan of tacos.  Yes, I'm Mexican, and I should love tacos, and avocados, and tequila, but I despise them all.  Most tacos are flavorless and filled with gristle, avocados feel like mush, and tequila makes me do stupid things, like eat avocado tacos.

Logically, I concluded that I'd hate fusion tacos, too.  Bulgogi in tacos?  I don't question many things, like why that police officer pulled me over, or how I fit the description, or why he beat me, or why he wasn't wearing a uniform, but this notion of bulgogi tacos is just confusing.   I'd never encountered sweet tacos in either the culinary or natural world.  Only sour tacos . . . cuz the lime.

Innuendo aside, these tacos are wonderful.  My pet peeve in tacos is gristle, and these had none.  I hate biting into tacos thinking I'm biting an eraser.  Conversely, I hate meat-flavored erasers.

Oh, their red sauce is on point.

I remember when I was a kid and pretended to shoot things with my toy guns and how awesome that was.  A few years later I was able to shoot a BB gun and thought, "this is so much more awesome than pretending to shoot things."

I had a similar experience after eating a burger at Blue Dahlia.  Though, Instead of likening their burger to a BB gun, I liken it to having your own personal Death Star, exploding planets willy-nilly.

Sadly, their garlic fries weren't comparable to a Death Star.  I guess they're a BB gun, or maybe a revolver.  They were very garlicky.  My girlfriend refused to kiss me after I ate them, which is weird because she loves garlic.  

Anyway, the sweet potato fries are the way to go here.  They're crofty, that's crispy on the outside and soft on the inside like a real fry should be.  On that note, what gives with soggy fries?  It's like having soggy bacons or square tires.  Just doesn't make sense.

Fish King proved my long-standing theory on seafood: the more repulsive the item, the more delicious it is. Case in point: oysters. They look like sad, contorted rocks formed in a whale's gall bladder.  Not only that, they're filled with what I can only compare to something produced exclusively by female anatomy.

Of course, in accordance with my theory, oysters are absolutely delicious like a salty ocean breeze or fuzzy memories, the edible kind.  Not only that, I've heard horror stories about people getting sick, puking out their stomachs and shitting their gastrointestinal tracts in their entirety after eating oysters.  Not so with the oysters at Fish King.  They were fresh and for only 1.24 each (25 cents for shucking).

We also got some hamachi sashimi which was even more delicious.  I shudder to think how hideous that seabeast must be.  I bet it's forty feet long with tentacles jutting from its eyeballs.

That being said, it's no wonder Nemo made it through the movie unscathed.  I bet that adorable pipsqueak tasted like fermented sewage.

I don't believe in big burritos.  Eating a burrito with a knife and fork is just visually offensive.  Would you eat a hoagie off a crouton?  First, it's physically impossible.  Second, you may as well have steak.  It's an idea few grasp as bread and tortillas are not just meat vessels, but vital ingredients in the meal.  

This burrito theory--nay, burrito FACT--should be acknowledged world-wide not only because large burritos don't make sense, but because they make me feel inadequate.

Burrito jealousy aside, it was a damned fine meat-filled sack (for a burrito of that size is no longer a burrito, but a meat-filled sack).  The meat inside this meat-filled sack was so incredibly tender and juicy and flavorful that I thought I was eating unicorn, the tenderest of all meat.  "No," our waiter assured me backing away slowly.

I should mention that La Barca has a dangerous happy hour.  It's dangerous because they pass a pint of vodka off as a cocktail, and because that pint in a cup is 2.50.  I was effectively drunk for 7.50.

This is the perfect place to go if you like asshole bartenders.

After sitting at the bar for 15 minutes watching as my friends and their friends were being served over and over, I urged my girlfriend to show her breasts.

Five minutes into the wait with my girlfriend's bare breasts resting dutifully in her hands, I realized that the slow service wasn't a result of a packed bar.  There were bartenders walking by us, making awkward eye contact, and walking away.  It was the kind of accidental eye contact one makes in a crowded elevator filled with flatus.  

Ten minutes into the standoff my hands were shaking from want of liquor.  I told my girlfriend to tuck her breasts back into her dress and insisted we give up, but she persevered--along with her breasts.  I am not sure why.

Fifteen minutes into the standoff we were finally approached by a bartender.  "Sorry for the wait," he said.

I thought, "how dare you blame it on anything other than you being an asshole."  It's best not to be mean to bartenders before they make your drinks.

This lack of decency greatly overshadows the bar's happy hour and excellent drinks.  Some drinks are too sour, and you'd be able to make great ceviche with them, but they're on point otherwise.  This saddens me, but, like Andy Dufresne, I suppose you have to trudge through shit before reaching redemption or something stupid.

Once every year or so, my testicles grow and I acquire the courage to attend a Yelp event that involves food and not alcohol.  I was taken by this event because it involved pizza, and my experience with pizza has been limited to week-long binges resulting from years of five dollar pizza deals.

The crust was first-rate and worthy of a medal.  I've never nominated a pizza crust for a medal before, or any other food item for that matter.  Hell, I've never nominated anything for a medal.  That in itself should be a testament to the mammoth force of this crust.  It wasn't soggy and could probably withstand the weight of several lesser pizzas, which brings me to my next point: salad.

Salad?

Yes, salad.  It felt like I was eating salad.  A salad atop a medal-worthy crust serving shamefully as a crouton.  I made a sad face on the pizza using diced tomato for eyes and ribbons of basil for the frown.  I almost cried.  A garlic margarita pizza shouldn't be sad, but I manned up and put it out of its misery then I was happy again because, sad salad aside, it was delicious.  Delicious and fresh like a misty virgin meadow or a cooling summer's breeze or some such nonsense.

Anyway, tying this stupid review together, the crust had to be strong lest it collapse under the weight of the toppings.

I hate to admit that my girlfriend is better looking than me.  The fact alone fills me with an implacable fury that makes me want to rage each time I see her, but I can't because she's so pretty with her pretty new hair.  I want to chew on her face she's so pretty.  Instead, I redirect my rage at a punching bag filled with the hair clipped from her mighty mane.  She was hairy, I tell you.  I'd call her Cousin Itt, not kidding.

Asked of her hairstylist, the girlfriend said, "Her name is Christina.  She listened to exactly what I wanted.  Not too short, not too long, enough layers, she ended up giving me side-swept bangs (which was a good thing).  Very personable, and informed me that they now do manicure's and pedicure's. It was $75 for wash, cut, blow-dry."

There's no parking lot, but that's okay because she can walk without someone having to carry her hair like a wedding dress behind her.

Oh, she wanted me to add that she loves Christina more than she loves me.  Whatever.

I was 'written' up for not being in costume.  And for being first to review.

Also perhaps for being home so fucking early.

Also, great event, Dawson!  Again.  Gesus fuck, take a break already!  Geez.  Shiiit.

[I was very drunk when I wrote this, a testament to Dawson's power.]