Hello Meat Log Blog readers and misguided Internet surfers
alike,
I write to you today as a shiny new version of the Meatical
Doctor you all know and put up with. My brain is larger now. I have the diploma
to prove it. I am officially certified to be a walking and talking adult in the real world.
Through the imitation fire-walk known as commencement, I
learned of the monotony of mature life. Gonzaga drilled home its final message
of patients, but as each first, middle and last name was bellowed into the
microphone, my hallow stomach further contracted. While Thayne McColluh
lectured me about lighting fires and his lack of upper body strength in high
school, my mind wandered. Weak with hunger and weighed down by looming adulthood,
my brain retreated to the comfortable realm of culinary daydreams.
I thought back
to my encounter with Domini’s Sandwiches… The meat phone rang, I answered. A
velvety voice spoke softly. She spoke of fine meats, hearty cheeses, and east
coast charm sandwiched between doughy bread.
It had to be true love; I felt it from the first time she
murmured “fresh sliced deli meat”. So I ventured out, away from the nest and straight into the rugged streets of
Spokane. I fought, hugged, bargained, murdered, and cried my way through tough
avenues until I made it to Wall and Sprague. My pilgrimage landed me mouth to
sandwich with a portion of corned beef that may have just been an entire cow
finely sliced. I chomped, chewed, and digested, but despite my best efforts,
the sandwich won. The mammoth sandwich domeatnated my stomach, banishing me to
a cozy culinary coma.
I snapped back to reality, oh there goes my sanity. A steady
stream of names dominates the room. I make a hasty escape back to the comfort
of warm memories.
Within the confines of my memory bank, I remember the Milk
Bottle. Shaun, my tall former roommate, demanded that our motley crew of misfit
roommates enjoy one last meal together, a final supper of sorts just with less
wine and crucifixion. Shaun settled upon the Milk Bottle as the restaurant of
choice. We obliged. The Milk Bottle, as the name explicitly implies, is shaped
like a giant milk bottle. I was of course initially turned off by the idea of dairy
shaped structure, given that I have met people who are lactose intolerant. But,
once I gave the Milk Bottle’s burger and fries a try, I was convinced to excuse
the lactose insensitive architecture. The Burger and fries were scrumptious,
leaving me satisfied and pacified.
Back in the uncomfortable present, I was anything but
satisfied. My hunger pangs were growing fangs as the onslaught of names
continued to douse the audience.
To escape agony I dove into the ooey gooey center of my
Spokane food world. I road my train of thought up Division Street to Calico
Kitchen and then back down the other way so that I could stop by Bangkok Thai.
As I entered Calico an overworked waitress offered up a
hospitable hello. Her greeting glazed over me as my attention was elsewhere. My
focus was locked on the hot sauce wall, as I walked past, my taste buds beamed
out “HELLO, we’ve missed you!” while my intestines offered up a more skeptic
glare. I settled into a booth as the same friendly waitress from before poured
me a splash of coffee to go with my sugar and cream. After careful
deliberation, I followed my gut cowboy instincts and ordered the western
burger. Piled high with BBQ sauce and onion rings and paired with a plethora of
peppery dressings, the western burger produced a flavorable outcome.
Bangkok has been my Taiwanese godmother during my time at
Gonzaga. She took me in from the start; fed me curries and dishes that rhymed
with Thad, and always gave me a student discount. Her cooking was always
meatvelous but it was the atmosphere she provided that made her what she is.
Under her watchful gaze I changed acquaintances into dear friends and for this,
I truly thank her. But my praise and admiration does not end with Bangkok Thai,
it extends out to all the Spokane restaurants mentioned previously on this silly blog and, most importantly, to the
friends who have made the past four years at Gonzaga University meatgical.
As my emotions began to well up, the monotonous stream of
names seeped back into my consciousness. It also brought back with it my now
horrifying hunger. I was turning ravenous. Fortunately, my program alerted me
that the ending was near. Like an ADHD addled youth I sat fidgety and antsy,
counting the seconds before I could turn my daydreams into tangible realities.
As I write to you today, I can assure you that my stomach
did not implode during commencement. My mother had wisely packed a packet of
peanut M & M’s in her purse, which sufficed to hold me over before I could
find more sizeable sustenance. I am also pleased to let you know that with
commencement in the rearview, I can commence my regularly scheduled posts. Talk
to you next week. Roll Zags.
