Big Shrimpin' Spending G's

Listen up you shrimpletons. I'm about to drop knowledge on y'all.

I'm just a Po' Boy from a po' family, or at least I used to be...

My clothes: raggedy. My body: unclean. And my stomach: tragically vacant. My American Dream was turning nightmarish. I needed to make a change; I needed to make an investment. So, I took my 32" Toshiba TV, circa 2002, down to the local prawn shop. After nearly an hour of haggling with the shrimpy man behind the counter, I convinced him to pay me $24 for my darling Toshiba. With $24 in hand and a head full of ambition I boarded a bus destined for the South Hill. As I stepped off my shuttle I could already see my bright future and Casper Fry's. I marched straight into to Casper Fry's (not under a cloak of darkness and smoke this time) and took a seat at the bar. I slammed my cash down and made an investment in flavor. As my Shrimp Po' Boy approached they bar I felt the winds of change brush against the neck. I slowly savored my sandwich and as I ate I knew that I would no longer be a Po' Boy.

As I left Casper Fry's the power of shrimp compelled me to buy a scratch ticket. I had $11 left to my name at this time. I spent $10. I won $1,000,000. After my initial elation subsided I chose to invest my money once again, only this time in the steak market. My financial decisions have paid dividends and although my accountant does not permit me to discuss these matters, I can assure you that my days as a Po' Boy are well behind me.

Life is shrimple now. I live in a quaint mega-mansion in the heart of New York City, I wear leather 3 piece suits, I gorge myself on Shrimp and White Wine and I own a pet Shrimpanzee. 

Shrimp changed my life, and it can change yours too.

A Brief History of Meatloaf

Bonjour mesdames et messieurs,

Sharpen your pencils, ingest your Adderall, and shine your apples (ham-apples preferably); Professor Gary Mustard has a history lesson prepared for the class today.

Bread is a big deal in France. Boulangeries (bread only bakeries for all y'all 'mericans) speckle a map of Paris like an outbreak of doughy chicken pox. Competition is fierce and only the best survive.

In 1763 there was one Boulangerie in Paris that stood apart from the others. It was known as Boulangerie Menardin, it was owned and operated by Pierre-Louis Andreu, and it was the worst. As an outcome of his horrid bread Pierre-Louis was blessed with ample free time. While loafing around on a dreary March morning brilliance crashed into Pierre-Louis' skull. In a fit culinary genius Monsieur Andreu closed his doors for the day; to no ones dismay. The doors to Boulangerie Menardin remained closed for weeks as Pierre-Louis crafted his legacy. When the doors of Boulangerie Menardin finally swung open again, greatness leapt out. Pierre-Louis had made some major rameatfication to bread; the dough was gone and meat took its place. Meatloaf was born.

Meatloaf has since been adopted and edited by cultures around the world but as the 20th century passed its midpoint, the popularity of meatloaf waned. Meatloaf consumption was in a sharp decline until Marvin Lee Aday ascended to super-stardom. Marvin, or should I say Meat Loaf, is an icon of American hard rock, a pillar in the male model community and unwaveringly commeated to what is good in the world. Marvin's meaticulous guitar, creamy vocals and Adonis like attractiveness propelled meatloaf back into the forefront of minds and the middle of dinner tables.

Today meatloaf is still going strong and I am doing my part to innovate. This past weekend I joined bacon and ground beef in Holy Meatramony. The pair brought onions, mushrooms, oatmeal, and an egg to fill out their wedding party.

The ceremony took just under an hour and was a moving experience for all involved. You could smell it in the air; a new couple was creating one perfect union. The newlyweds promptly jumped into a big bed made of fluffy pesto mashed potatoes and have been making tender love to my taste buds ever since.

Bacon Meatloaf I love you!

The Steakout

Location: Perry Street - Spokane
Date: January 26, 2012
Target: Casper Fry, a restaurant named after and operated by friendly ghosts.
Objective: a meatsterful heist of exquisite flat iron steak.

Dressed in black, cloaked by the darkness of Spokane alleyways, and aided by my inherent ninja prowess; I surveyed my prey. The night was freezing and while I patiently waited for the ideal moment I began to feel hypothermeata creeping into my extremities. The cold was biting, but my focus was unscathed. With the dinner rush intensifying I could sense the momeat for action approaching. At 7:47 a party of four gents was seated near the door, three of the men donned facial hair and all of them possessed portly figures; clear signs of potential steakholders. As they ordered, I read lips.

Bingo!

Two confirmed orders of steak, all my ducks (or should I say cows?) were in a row. As the waiter emerged from the kitchen transporting precious cargo, I crept across the street and up to the doorway. Delectable dinners were greeting the diners' table when the first smoke bomb went off. Pandemonium ensued. Amid disoriented shrieks I nabbed my prize and with a final smoke bomb I was off, leaving nothing but alarmed patrons and confused ghosts in my wake.

Ocean's Eleven are all chumps compared to me and below is the proof: One meatium rare flat iron steak complete with vegetable accompaniment.

In Remeatberence Of...

At 10:42 am EST on January 18th, 2013 the world lost a meatvelous man. Phil Adelphia, creator of the Philly Cheese Steak, died of meatsphyxiation while enjoying his morning cheese steak in the dining nook of his Bradenton Florida home. Phil was 87.

The last couple days have been dismal, sorrowful, days. My mopey mood was approaching a melancholy climax when it struck me: Phil wouldn't want me to lament over his death, he would want me to commeatmorate it with the sandwich of the Gods.

This is my Philly Cheese Steak Memorial.

The rebuilding of my broken heart began with a slab of meat, as it always does,

which I promptly proceeded to cut up, along with some non-picture worthy onions, green peppers, and jalapenos.

Next I did what all great chefs do, I threw everything in the crock pot with some beef broth and walked away. Eight hours and countless games of bejeweled later I returned to my culinary thunderdome to find a pot of unmeatqualed splendor.

All that was left to do was to toast the bread and melt the cheese; a cinch for a cordon blue cook like myself. The end product was a flavor blasted homage to the Godfather of Cheese Steak.

R.I.P. Phil Adelphia. Your Cheese Steaky goodness will live on forever.

Great Men of Meat: Second Serving

When I get the funding to build the Gary Mustard Meatseum, Duncan Steel will get his own wing.

This is Duncan's story:

School was not for Duncan. He was vehemeatly passionate about meat and art, which left little room in his stomach, heart, and mind for the monotonous tutelage and bland grub of the American School System. In the 7th grade, despite his mother's pleas, Duncan dropped out of school and into butcher apprenticeship. From the start Duncan showed a propensity for the carving craft, but his artistic tendoncies led him to trouble. With raw meaterials at his fingertips and his master's back turned, Duncan took to sculpting. At first he would only take the occasional scrap but as his talent grew, so did the need for more meaterials. Duncan's banishment from butchery and birth as the Michelangelo of meat took place on the very same day. On the morning of August 12th, 1971, Duncan was caught stealing a fillet which was meant to be the final piece of an automeatbile he had been working on. His master, enraged, dismissed him indefinitely. Duncan, dazed distraught and disheveled, slumped down on a park bench, his unfinished, shame riddled, automeatbile by his side. While Duncan sat introspectively, fate was working. At 4:04 pm, while on a jog at the request of his wife, Donald J. Tyson tripped over a protruding root and fell thunderously. Gravity's assault on Tyson at 4:04 was monumeatal for a number of reasons: it began Don Tyson's staunch abstinence from running of any kind, it happened directly in front of Duncan Steel and, most importantly, Donald J. Tyson was CEO of Tyson Foods. Don's introduction to the ground shook Duncan from his brooding and brought him to his feet. As Duncan helped Don (who only suffered minor scrapes and bruises) to his feet, Don spotted the incomplete automeatbile on the bench. Don, ever the meat lover and curious cat, inquired about the atypical sculpture. Duncan, in an uncontrollable verbal spew, told Don everything. Donald touched by the teen's enthusiasm and impressed by his artistic vision (as well as still a bit flustered from his tumble and Duncan's unfiltered admissions), revealed his lofty job title and offered Duncan access to Tyson Food's scraps. With this kind gesture Donald J. Tyson became the first, and to my knowledge only, meat patron and Duncan Steel was on his way to sculptor stardom. Duncan Steel is the Donatello of our generation, a gift to us all.

Donald J. Tyson probably deserves mention in my Meatseum but that will have to wait for another time.

Stay calm and meat on.

The GyroZone: Solving the Greece Trap

Pupils, gather round and listen up, the Meatstro is back.

To begin, lets face facts; the nation of Grease is in some deep economic excrement. The country is falling apart and its dragging the rest of Gyrope down with it.

Austerity isn't producing prosperity and the EU banks aren't constructing comfort. The only hope for Grease is to assemble the Lambformer!
 
Herculean skewers of gyro meat will make up the arms and legs with a prodigious pita torso situated in between them. On top will sit a lettuce head with glowing red tomato eyes. Tzatziki blood will course through its veins with Shai LaBeouf at the center as its beating heart.

It will also double as a LAMBorghini

The Lambformer will lead, the Lambformer will feed, the Lambformer will redistribute wealth.

The Lambformer will solve the Gyropean Debt Crisis.

Gluttony In 2013: Overmeating

Howdy All Ya'll Cowgirls, Cowboys and Cows,

Welcome to 2013, the Year of the Meat.

I recently took a trip by rail to the land of decadence and calories.

The conductor yelled "All aboard!" as Chad Der, Riga Toni, Henry Chicken and Max Grease piled into the caboose. With everyone accounted for and the wheels properly lubed with wine we were on our way.


Instantly Chad Der and Toni, as Riga preferred to be called, hit it off. After about 25 minutes together the pair was nearly inseparable and by the end of the ride they were getting ooey gooey all over each other.

With Chad Der and Riga Toni off in lover's paradise, Henry Chicken and Max Grease were left alone. It took Max Grease a while to warm up to Mr. Chicken, but once the pair got to talking they quickly developed an affinity for one and other. After a stop in the quaint town of Seasoningville for minor meatenance on the train, Chicken and Grease could be seen palling around like old friends.

The iron horse pulled into the station just before midnight. Passengers were unloaded directly into my mouth from which they enjoyed a short tour of my esophagus before spending a pleasant, restful night in my stomach.

Max, Riga, Chad and Hen's fate took a turn for the worse after their night at the Tummy Inn, but why end a happy story with such horrors? Just tell your children that they lived happily ever after...