It is a mighty testament to the flexibility of my character that I have agreed to publish in this sordid periodical, which is produced by a particularly degenerate cluster of Hebrews, sodomites, and sour-tongued atheists who imbibe spirits at a rate that, by all reasonable and geometric standards, should already have sent them to whatever righteous torture awaits these heretics. I suppose I have made this contribution as an act of mercy towards you, the pitiable and corrupted readership of this magazine. I offer you the chance to avert your gaze from this vile heap of burlesque scribblings and instead give you a glimpse of the venerated theological wisdom of a bygone era. Thus, without further ado, I give you my appraisal of Berkeley’s various restaurants and eateries.
My question, dear reader, is whether the cuisine of an establishment ought to be indicted if it is consumed primarily by the drunken, fornicating misfits of the late night bar scene? The counter emits a twin headed hydra of swaying primates held to the ground by the force of their own backwards baseball caps. Thus, when I arrived, I employed my impressive volume in the enterprise of reaching the register. There was a collective release of grunts and mush mouthed gibberish as I forged ahead. I was quick to silence their grumbling with an authoritative declaration of purpose, “Excuse me! But I am no mere customer. I am here as a representative of one of the city’s premiere publications. Now if you will all make way, I require a sample.” I thrust a wad of moneys into the waiting clutches of the rodent-eyed harlot behind the counter whose visage had been mutilated by no less than a dozen bars, hooks, and hoops of metal, making her resemble nothing so much as the pagan voodoo doll she undoubtedly enshrines within her fetid apartment.
I had already drawn in the hearty scent of the dish past the guardrail of my full bodied mustache and into my sensitive nostrils. Placing it upon the waiting, pink rug of my tongue I first absorbed the delicate softness of the crust. But the restaurant critic cannot merely consume, he must be an instrument of aesthetic precision, so I gently sucked the grease pooled inside a pepperoni. Apparently the act made an audible noise, for several faces turned in my direction. I screamed for privacy but with my mouth full of delicious cheese and tomato sauce I accidentally sprayed a moorish thug with steaming, half chewed foodstuff. When I noted that this was a living metaphor of avian feeding practices, he failed to fully appreciate the witticism.
At this point it was clear that they had given me a slice of inadequate size. Not wanting to disturb the staff I helpfully reached over the counter to scoop up another slice more deserving of my purchase. Unfortunately, I had picked up a vegetarian slice, covered in their cabbage patch swill and obscure middle-eastern dressings which offend both one’s sense of olfaction and morality. But this was the least of my worries, for by then the small Andes tribesmen garbed in the livery of the establishment became immediately agitated, exhibiting the cultural practices of his native land via wild gesticulations and emphatic shrieks. Before I even had a chance to explain myself they hustled me out the door and chucked me onto a filthy vagrant begging for stray coinage.
Until next time, dear readers,
Ignatius J. Reilly