BY Fui Von Wiwii
Yesterday afternoon, I walked my wretched being down to our rustic old IHOP, looking only to drown my consciousness in viscous molasses of various colors and essences. However, upon arrival at the establishment, my gloom transformed into contempt as they try to shove their family-friendly, corporate, faux happiness down my tired throat.
I ordered their Create-A-Face Pancake to fashion my feelings of despair onto the canvas of a buttermilk pancake. However, they mistook my order, I suspect deliberately, and served me a Funny Face Pancake, the quintessence of mock euphoria; the edible personification of a barely legal porn star just trying to pay off debts.
Afterwards, I ordered their free stack of pancakes, hoping to forget the mistakes IHOP and I have made in the past. One bite put an end to that misconception. I broke down into tears, the porous flapjacks absorbing my tears with ease. The wait staff attempted to console my shattered soul, but nothing can mend me now. The only thing I could do was leave, never to look back at the ruins I have left in my wake.
7/10. Free pancakes are still free.
BY Fui von Wiwii
Two words: boundary breaking. That is the best way to describe one of what I would describe as IHOP’s master works, and I hesitate to use the term “master work,” but IHOP has justified its usage time and time again, this being no exception. Of course, I’m talking about the Tilapia Florentine, on IHOP’s entrée menu, and is the only seafood item on their menu. But truly, you’d think it came from beachside three star Michelin ristorante.
Let me try to paint you a tribute to this meal, using nothing but a few blissful memories of a dinner lost to the unforgiving, yet insufferably fair, march of time. However, words cannot describe how one feels when you first breath in a scent of this tilapia over the torrent of morning regalement; the tangy scent of a seaside mistress seduces you before you even set eyes on her. How she tenderly places herself on your table, laid out bosom exposed for you. Her clitoris gently whispering, almost inaudibly, out to you, for you to consume. First slowly, but soon more savagely than either of you can handle. And before it’s even truly began, it’s over. The morning after, she’s gone without a notice. If it weren’t for your memory, and the night clerk’s query of where the other guest was, she very well might not have existed. But lying on that mattress, in a motel room unkempt, uncared for, and forgotten; lay the memory of one of your most incredible nights.
9/10. Broccoli was a bit too mushy for my taste.
BY Supa Krupa Troopa
Oh waffle, waffle. Wherefore art thou waffle? Deny thy healthy breakfast food, refuse thy accessibility to waffle iron…
Although we don’t unite often, meeting you for breakfast dates is just as magical today as it was when we met in the early 90s. I first encountered your infamous eggo waffle avatar at breakfast before a yellow bus came to pick me up for my first day of kindergarten. The memory of dulcet and redolent syrup that ran over your carby, crispy exterior makes me pine for you.
Your versatility amazes. Fruits, butter, chocolate chips, whipped cream, ice cream, and sometimes even the savory deep fried delicacies are so compatible with your fluffy goodness. You carry yourself with such panache that would go great with chocolate ganache.
I feel an abysmal darkness resonating through my soul when I’m told “Sorry ma’am, we only have pancakes today, would you like coffee with that?”
However when we do meet, it makes the experience that much more unforgettable. You are my panacea for anything. My happiness. My joy. My hope. You’ve been breakfast of choice from day 1. Thank you for being my everything.