It's been a week since our last post, and there's a good reason for that. She's sitting about two or three feet to my right. But enough with the excuses; none of you really want to hear about it here. You want to hear the word on what I'm eating.
And the word, my friends, is burgers.
That's right, motherfuckers. Today, Zack has proven once again that he is a true seeker of the delicious, for at his behest, I made a pilgrimage to a place I should have been to a long, long time ago: The Shake Shack.
At 11:30, my ladyfriend and I arrived at the little stand in Madison Park and attached ourselves to the already-substantial line formed at the ordering station. We were joined forthwith by Count Zackula and his cohort Sebastian, and spent the next ten minutes in line discussing what to get. Both of them were old hands at the joint, and assured me that no meal at the Shack would be complete without getting at least the Double Stack: a burger augmented by a deep-fried cheese-stuffed portobello mushroom.
But no, that would not be enough for me. I needed something more. I needed the Shack Stack - cheeseburger, awesome mushroom thing, cheeseburger.
And so we ordered. We were given a buzzer to await the arrival of our meal.
I clutched this plastic vibrator like a spinster on a Saturday night, waiting impatiently as customer after customer rose to retrieve their deliciousness. I gave the mental finger to each one in turn. Up yours, girl who's talking on the phone, picking at her fries rather than eating her burger. Screw you, guy who got a friggin' hot dog. Your mother, batch of interns who ordered like ninety things to bring back to the office. You don't appreciate what you've got. You don't deserve it.
At long last, ol' #34 buzzed. Giggling like an imp on meth, I scurried to the window to claim my prize.
That's what a burger order should look like. A cardboard box with a fry boat, a plastic cup of tasty beverage (Abita Root Beer in my case), and a gut bomb wrapped in greasy wax paper.
Fuck yes.
Staring down that fried portobello was like getting your first hooker. You're nervous, you know you should have brought protection, but you already paid, so...
Uhnf.
I bit into the burger, and the crispy disc of mushroomy goodness ejaculated its hot, cheesy love lava into my mouth. It was as if the burger had bought my taste buds a few drinks, taken them out for a ride to a Makeout Point, and nailed them in the backseat of their Camaro. Two months later, my taste buds would decide to keep the baby as a reminder of that magical night of passion.
So, yes, it's safe to say I enjoyed the experience. And it would seem that I wasn't the only one who felt that way.
That, my friends, is a lot of people waiting for their chance to get mouthfucked by this burger. Bless their zeal.
Zack says the next place we're hitting up is an arepa joint, one that's got plenty of chorizo on the menu. I can't wait to get some hot, greasy sausage in my mouth.
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