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22 December 2023
It's Saturday morning. What time would you get up? That's right: 6:45 AM. What would you do next? Correct: drive 125 miles for breakfast. Who would you go with? Right-o: nine other happening young scenesters.
We-- the tastes like chicken staff-- made this pilgrimage because of a certain fine eatery, nay, the finest eatery in all creation, which serves a breakfast fit for The King.
Just take a guess at what or who inspires such fare. Give up? Lumberjacks, my friend! The lumberjacks have perfected the fine art of dining. And it is one Mr. Paul Bunyan, the woodsiest of woodsmen, who welcomed us to our feast at his shrewdly named restaurant: Paul Bunyan's Famous Cook Shanty. It's an all-you-care-to-eat, self-inflicted heart attack for only $7.99,.. with skinny little Russian waitresses to boot!
The ten of us were shown to our authentic wooden lumberjack table. We sat on two benches, packed tighter than Luther Vandross' girdle. The atmosphere was superb: a log cabin's interior, complete with fine art (logging mementos from throughout the years). An added aesthetic was the bounty of sharp lumberjack tools mounted on the walls, used-- no doubt-- to free the occasional overzealous eater from their table like make-shift jaws of life.
Our waitress passed out pots of bona fide logging camp coffee and cartons of orange juice and milk, no doubt freshly suckled from Babe's teat. But enough with frivolities! We were eager for the food! Das Bork in particular was feeling light-headed, as he was coming down from the previous night's butter burger high, and desperately needed grease in his veins. Within minutes, Anastasia, our lucky Latvian server, had begun laying a feast upon the table. A review of each dish is as follows:
Coffee: As robust and black as a miner's lung.
Homemade donuts: Like sugar-dusted angel buns.
Flapjacks: Straight from the logging camp griddle.
Sausage/Ham: A mountain of meat, worthy of any lumberjack; so succulent that juice sopped from the plate!
Eggs: So fluffy they floated onto each person's plate like a spring butterfly.
Potatoes: Perfection. Tossed with enough grease to ease the entire meal down--and out-- without so much as a whisper!
We must have dined for tens of minutes! All the while, sweet Anastasia didn't miss a beat, constantly replenishing the feast. All said and done, the ten of us surely consumed as much food as her family ate in six months back in her motherland.
Ah, gluttony! Ah, America! Mr. Bunyan, bravo! Bravo!
EAT LIKE AN AMERICAN PIG! CHECK IT OUT HERE.
We-- the tastes like chicken staff-- made this pilgrimage because of a certain fine eatery, nay, the finest eatery in all creation, which serves a breakfast fit for The King.
Just take a guess at what or who inspires such fare. Give up? Lumberjacks, my friend! The lumberjacks have perfected the fine art of dining. And it is one Mr. Paul Bunyan, the woodsiest of woodsmen, who welcomed us to our feast at his shrewdly named restaurant: Paul Bunyan's Famous Cook Shanty. It's an all-you-care-to-eat, self-inflicted heart attack for only $7.99,.. with skinny little Russian waitresses to boot!
The ten of us were shown to our authentic wooden lumberjack table. We sat on two benches, packed tighter than Luther Vandross' girdle. The atmosphere was superb: a log cabin's interior, complete with fine art (logging mementos from throughout the years). An added aesthetic was the bounty of sharp lumberjack tools mounted on the walls, used-- no doubt-- to free the occasional overzealous eater from their table like make-shift jaws of life.
Our waitress passed out pots of bona fide logging camp coffee and cartons of orange juice and milk, no doubt freshly suckled from Babe's teat. But enough with frivolities! We were eager for the food! Das Bork in particular was feeling light-headed, as he was coming down from the previous night's butter burger high, and desperately needed grease in his veins. Within minutes, Anastasia, our lucky Latvian server, had begun laying a feast upon the table. A review of each dish is as follows:
Coffee: As robust and black as a miner's lung.
Homemade donuts: Like sugar-dusted angel buns.
Flapjacks: Straight from the logging camp griddle.
Sausage/Ham: A mountain of meat, worthy of any lumberjack; so succulent that juice sopped from the plate!
Eggs: So fluffy they floated onto each person's plate like a spring butterfly.
Potatoes: Perfection. Tossed with enough grease to ease the entire meal down--and out-- without so much as a whisper!
We must have dined for tens of minutes! All the while, sweet Anastasia didn't miss a beat, constantly replenishing the feast. All said and done, the ten of us surely consumed as much food as her family ate in six months back in her motherland.
Ah, gluttony! Ah, America! Mr. Bunyan, bravo! Bravo!
EAT LIKE AN AMERICAN PIG! CHECK IT OUT HERE.
artid
1594
Old Image
6_1_bunyan.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 01 (sep 2003)
section
entertainmental