The Worst Night of My Life

In my 35 years of life, I had never had food poisoning.

And let me tell you, it wasn’t through lack of exposure. In my travels abroad I have eaten all manner of things that I’ve often thought would either make me ill or give me super powers. Be it insects or testicles or half grown duck fetuses boiled alive and eaten from their own shell (its own story, really), I  have stress-tested my intestinal fortitude and it has never failed me. Ol’ Iron Guts - thats me! Or so I thought.

That is until one recent trip to Spain when, with my defences breached, both Miss Meathead and I suffered through a stretch of illness so wretched, so diabolically nasty that, well, let me put it to you this way: Only 2 months after this, while visiting my parents in Texas, I ate something that made me so ill I was  robbed of any/all control of my bodily functions which led to A.) my guts and rectum conspiring against me in my sleep, which then meant I had to B.) wake my girlfriend in the middle of the night to tell her that her boyfriend had actually shit the bed and finally C.) in order to fall back asleep, I had to shove one of my mom’s christmas hand towels down the back of my shorts in fear of my body’s betrayal. Well, I would rather go through 10 of THOSE nights than even one like that fateful night on the Spanish coast.

So, what did we eat? Being that we were in Puerto Banus, a district of Marbella which spoons the Mediterranean sea, you could reasonably assume it was some type of seafood. You would be wrong. It wasn’t food at all. It was a fucking cocktail.

The very drink in question, snapped here only hours before "the incident"

The day had started well enough. We had just finished hiking up & down a mountain called La Concha (The Shell) which forms part of the Andalusian mountain range running directly behind Puerto Banus. It was a long walk on a sunny day and food & cocktails by the seaside was the agreed reward. After eating at an Italian place we’d warmed to previously (more on how I know it wasn’t this food in a bit), we went to another place we’d already frequented for cocktails the night before. The name eludes me, but it had this friendly chap whose joy in life seemed to come from waving menus at people. The first few times we walked by him I took the opportunity to practice my spanish, which was met with a smile that seemed to be born more out of politeness than engagement. It wasn’t until later that I learned he wasn’t from Spain at all. I’d been speaking Spanish to a Serbian.

Down we sat and ordered our drinks. An Irish Coffee and a Pina Colada. As they shared the common ingredient of cream, my guess is that this was the agent of doom which - unbeknownst to us - had quickly begun its program of destruction.

How do I know it wasn’t the food? Welp, the night before, we had cocktails from this very same place, and then followed them up with Kinder Hippos. Both Miss Meathead and I felt a little queasy that night and mistakenly cursed the Hippos as a result. All is forgiven, Kinder Hippos, all is forgiven.

Having finished our drinks, we bid farewell to our Serbian friend and headed back to our apartment. Not 10 minutes later, we simultaneously looked at each other with distorted faces. Something was amiss. Miss Meathead, sensing what was to come, calmly made her way to the bathroom. Even then, we were both blissfully unaware of what was around the corner.

From 30 feet away and through 2 walls, I heard THAT sound. That unmistakable sound I’ve heard a thousand times from myself and others, usually mixed with proclamations of “I’ll never drink again I swear”....I came to her aid, holding her hair back as stipulated in the Universal Boyfriend Agreement. Glad to do it, it nevertheless set me off, in the same way that watching someone yawn compels you to do the same. I ran like the wind to the other bathroom. (I cringe to think what may have transpired if there was only one bathroom. I'm not sure we’d ever be able to look at each other again.)

And so it began. The floodgates quite literally opened. I vommed so hard I couldn't breathe...I thought I was going to pass out, and just as I thought I was done, my body, now furiously angry, decided that my mouth alone did not suffice as an expulsion point. It turned on ALL the taps, if you catch my drift. I was like a cheese filled sausage being squeeze from the middle. I’d lay on the cold tile, feverish and praying in delirium to anyone that would listen, and have to jump up to sit on the can, then hurl into the tub from there. When there was a pause in the storm, it was only enough for me to lay in bed for a moment in a swirling agony, before leaping for my life and darting back to the 8th circle of hell that the bathroom had become.

Miss Meathead was no better, but by that point we had mutually neglected the other’s existence. There was no head space for sympathy, we just passed each other like moaning ghosts in the night, over and over and over again. If I had a moment to spare pity for anyone, it was our neighbours. These walls were not very thick - we could already hear each other running the bathroom sink or flushing the toilet. Now they had to listen to our throes of perdition, and from dusk til dawn no less.  

Oh, and the smell. Christ Jesus, the SMELL. Go out to the desert, find something freshly dead, bury your nose deep in its ass and breathe. Only then might you appreciate how utterly rank the air in that apartment became. It was a bio-chem attack that only served to exacerbate the nausea, thus sending us into a perpetual loop of sickness from which there seemed no escape.

This went on, incessantly, for 8 hours. By the end of it, we were so weak we could barely move. We just stared an empty stare and offered a grunt from time to time, just to reassure the other that we were alive. We had nothing left to offer the world, and my brain ticked over only enough to have the sad thought that I would never eat again.

Finally, desperately dehydrated, we somehow mustered the energy to stand up and make the slow journey to the corner store which sat a 5 minute walk away. It may as well have been at the top of La Concha. We walked down the sun kissed spanish street as if we had cement shoes, barely lifting our feet in short, frail steps. Pale with illness and sunken eyes from the lack of sleep, we probably looked nuts, and I couldn't give less of a shit. We stocked up on Jello and Fruit Ice thingys and Juice and whatever else we thought we could keep down and headed back. There, at ground zero, we spent the better part of 2 days recovering. We eventually were able to eat solids again - the local McDonalds was serving McRibs and the temptation was all too great.

The rest of the trip was so infallibly awesome that *the* night was one we were soon laughing about. Still, even now I greet anything served to me with milk with a suspicious eye. Forgiven, but never forgotten.

Guest Blog: Saved by a Taxi Driver

Very excited to have this guest review by my buddy Jamie "J-Dog" Gallagher. Jamie is a salesman by trade with a 3rd degree black belt in bullshitting. He bravely trekked the evacuation zone that is Cardiff on a Monday night, and this is his story.

If Meathead eats runs a complaints department this should probably be recorded there..........

Since January the 2nd I have been on a healthy eating kick, like so many! (Sorry miss Meathead, we are cluttering up your gyms!) But sort of once a week I allow myself to fall off the metaphoric wagon, sort of keeps me sane!

I was in Cardiff for one night and one night only and the cruel mistress that is fate had deemed to make this messianic visitation on a Monday evening, which is the rockingest night in one of Europe's premier capital cities. Luckily I wasn't alone, I was hanging out with Declan Maguire. Think of the two of us as Han solo and Chewbacca of the outsourcing world. (Me being Han, just for your  reference)

So, get to the point I hear you cry (if you made it this far!). I reach out to Mr Meat of the Head and ask for a recommendation of the burger variety and sure enough he comes back fast and hard with a recommendation of 'the urban tap house'. We check out the menu and it looks great.

So, we are sold. The pictures look great of the food, but then again what kind of dummy would put shitty pictures of food on their website?

We secure the Millennium Falcon in the Millennium Stadium (seemed the obvious place to park). In we strode into the Tap house which is vaguely reminiscent of the Mos Eisley Cantina, greeted with a slightly mildew smell combined with the pungent aroma of beer and cooking fat hanging in the air, a veritable myriad of beers on sale in bottles and on the tap. (FOCUS. we're here to talk burgers not beer!)

I ask the nice bar lady can we sit anywhere and order food from her and then it happens. Ker-Blam:  'Kitchen shuts at 6pm on a Monday'. Time check, it's 8pm. This has to go down as a Meathead fail. Hold on didn't he give us a backup?........Gourmet Burger kitchen it is then! Maybe just a quick glass of Oyster Tea stout before we leave! (Very nice, malty and tasty, please don't drink if you're allergic to oysters they are used in the brewing process)

So, we leave the Falcon (never drink and drive kids) and take the walk cross town discovering that Cardiff is coming like a ghost town on Monday night! Many eateries shut. All the robotic eateries seem to be full, 'Jamie's, Waggas & Carluccios' but we have a hankering for burgers.

We enter 'Gourmet Burger Kitchen' first impressions - It's bright, and cold. No one greets us, we find our own table and sit down - a smiley girl approaches, gives us 2 menus and we review - there's no chilli burger (cue disappointment).  These burgers got some fancy names:  'Smokin Joe, Camemburger, Wellington & the Blazing Sombrero (Y'all heard about that one already). I select one called The Taxidriver (RH):  American cheese, onion ring, Cajun relish, smoked chilli mayo, dill pickle, salad, brioche bun. Mrs G always says I order too many sides. I don't want to let her down, so I order 3, fries, onion rings and slaw. The Wookie orders the same.

  

We order some monkey nuts while we wait and pretend we like them and make small talk while we wait for for the beef pattie party to starty.

Boom . Here's the beer.  2 larger Budvars (Can't go wrong. Reviewed many budvars over the years - some on the way down,  some on the way up! Down is better!)

Starters arrive. Ker-Poww

Onion rings perfectly cooked bags of crunch;;  Jalapeno slaw lovely fries tasted like matchsticks (avoid or get the thick ones I'd say)

Anyhow side show bob can only take you so far - Bring out the main event!

The Taxi Drivers arrive - we get our ride. We're not disappointed. The first half is lovely -  moist and juicy. The mayo and the relish work really well together and there's a cheeky onion ring slipped in which has a reassuring crunch. All topped with American cheese (which can make anything taste cheap). Its amazing - we hacked it slightly and added bacon which was awesome - this is truly diabetes in a bun! Luckily the chef forgot to put lettuce and tomato on it, so we made a calorie saving there. (phew!) I don't think it needed this vegetation on it anyway.

Chewie was making appreciative noises too. Order your burgers one under how you like them as they are served straight off the grill and continue to cook a while, making the 2nd half of your burger not as good as the first.

I 'd give it a solid 7/10 overall.

Now, I'd like to tell you I fought the good fight that day and no burger survived but that's not true, I couldn't manage it all and left some to go to the swill bucket, but I sent most of that burger to Burger Heaven!

So Mr Meathead came through in the end and I am looking forward to hitting 'Five Guys' in Reading with him real soon. (Don't worry Mr meathead I'll check the opening times)

Til next time here's wishing y'all Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun!

I'm out

J

Lunch at the Zoo

When eating at the zoo, one must temper expectations a bit. Sure, you may find the typical fairground oddities: ice cream, deep-fried whatnots and refined sugar in various forms, from fluffs of cotton candy to brightly coloured, teeth rotting gorillas. That is all I expected while strolling through the San Antonio Zoo on a recent sunny day, still buzzing from a behind-the-scenes tour that included some quality time with a giant tortoise named Willie. And really, that would have been just fine. After all, it is reasonable to consider petting a tortoise as the highlight of any day. Expecting more would just be greedy.

This is Willie. As you can see, he enjoyed a good tickle.

It was a bit of a treat, then, to find an elote cart, smack in the middle of the park. What is elote, I hear you ask? Welp, for those who don’t know, allow to explain via some facts that I'm fairly sure are mostly true:

1. A large swath of what we today know as Texas used to belong to Mexico.

2. That is until the United States of yesteryear gained control of that same land by employing the time tested tactic of just fucking taking it.

3. Mexican heritage remains a prevalent culture in South Texas, including the food.

4. Mexican cooking is inseparable from corn. By law, corn must be incorporated into every dish, some how, some way, and the punishment for failure to do so is severe. The details are not important.

5. The Spanish word for corn is elote (pronounced eh-loh-teh).

And there we are. Five degrees of separation between the San Antonio Zoo and this exceptionally savoury snack.

I prefer my elote in a cup. It creates more room for buttery, fatty goodness.

Mind you, this is no ordinary corn. Elote is corn with a coat of explosive flavour. It is corn in its finest form, dressed in its Sunday best. Anybody who disputes otherwise or even suggests that there is a better way to serve corn is wrong, clearly incapacitated and should not be allowed near heavy machinery or children.

It is commonly sold as street food from a cart, and so it is also quite simple to make at home. You can find tons of recipes on-line, though I can tell you now it is no more or less than roasted corn lathered in  butter, mayonnaise, garlic, salt, lime, cilantro (AKA coriander), cayenne pepper, chili powder, and a crumbly cheese. 

About that cheese: I can’t stress the “crumbly” bit here strong enough, folks. It has to crumble and not melt, otherwise all you’ll have is cheesy corn and your disappointment will know no end.The best cheese is cotija cheese but that will be hard to find outside of these parts, so Feta can work as a substitute.

Certainly, it wasn't the best elote I've ever had. It was the zoo, afterall. With that said, it was serviceable and I didn't mind it being the first elote sampled by Miss Meathead. When pressed for her take, she offered a verdict as short and sweet as Miss Meathead herself: "A little cup of sunshine".  

Best wishes for 2014, dudes. 

-meathead.