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Food in Hell


adrober
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My restaurant in hell would have a religeous fundamentalist as a maitre d' who puntuates the ends of his sentances with "God bless you". The wine list is Almaden box wines, with a special of Maneshevitz. The ventilation system is broken, the room is packed full, and *everyone* is smoking cigars. There are no chairs: It's a tatami room. Everyone is served the food to which they have an allergic reaction. (That would be uni for me). The food allergy roller coaster begins: Hives, itching, wheezing, nausea, projectile vomiting, passing out, death spasms............repeated for each course. And the maitre d' is saying psalms between bodies.

I'm a canning clean freak because there's no sorry large enough to cover the, "Oops! I gave you botulism" regrets.

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Susan, that is truly disgusting.....!

Yes, thank you. I tried. What is hell if not the epitome of repulsive?

I'm a canning clean freak because there's no sorry large enough to cover the, "Oops! I gave you botulism" regrets.

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I'm with the "best food exactly the same for eternity" crowd. Monotony IS Hell.

Companions at dinner from Hell: Jessie Helms, Joe McCarthy, Jerry Fallwell, Oral Roberts...I attempt repeatedly to cut my veins with a butterknife.

Music: Iron Maiden or Megadeth so loud your teeth rattle.

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canned peas.

meat from cans, covered in aspic or any sort of gelatonous substance.

tiny-fish-from-cans, in whatever *shudder* dill cream sauce they might be covered in.

Whomever the server would be, he/she would be checking every 5 minutes to see if I'm "still workin' on that?"

My list of dining companions would turn this into a political statement, so I'll abstain. :cool:

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Silly boy...

there are no chefs in hell, only microwaves.

my dining companions would be bigots of every stripe. we'd probably spend most of our time slinging food at each other.

as for food, that's easy -- all the food and drink I can't eat: stinky cheese (runny Epoisses, anyone?), wine by the glass, sake/hard liquour, and gallon jugs of milk.

Soba

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Most elements of this are endlessly debatable. One is not: the music.

Last Saturday night, my husband and I tried a newish joint run by a Swiss fellow and his wife. The menu was all Swiss "specialties"...none of them awful, none of them spectacular. Quaint, but not twee, decor. Polite, unobtrusive service. For the price (quite reasonable), I might be persuaded to return. Except for this: throughout the meal, the music playing was a scratchy recording of traditional Swiss yodeling piped through one small, tinny speaker. THAT, my friends, is the soundtrack of hell.

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The Food: La Choy's canned Chop Suey. For every meal. With a side of cold Lima Beans in some sort of milk broth.

The Chef: Doesn't matter. Not even St. Jacque could rescue the meal.

The wait staff is pushing around dim sum carts. You ask the waiter pushing their cart nearest to you what it is they have and you can't understand what they're saying because of their heavy accent. So you go ahead and take what they have only to find it's La Choy's canned Chop Suey. :blink:

The music is provided by a live choir consisting of everyone who didn't make the cut to get on "American Idol", along with a couple of the contestants that did. :hmmm:

 

“Peter: Oh my god, Brian, there's a message in my Alphabits. It says, 'Oooooo.'

Brian: Peter, those are Cheerios.”

– From Fox TV’s “Family Guy”

 

Tim Oliver

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the music playing was a scratchy recording of traditional Swiss yodeling piped through one small, tinny speaker. THAT, my friends, is the soundtrack of hell.

Agreed :laugh:

I'm sure the cheese with maggots would be on the menu, as well as freshly beheaded snakes! Oh, wait... I've heard some of you like that :wacko:

Edited by NolaFoodie (log)
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Most elements of this are endlessly debatable. One is not: the music.

Last Saturday night, my husband and I tried a newish joint run by a Swiss fellow and his wife. The menu was all Swiss "specialties"...none of them awful, none of them spectacular. Quaint, but not twee, decor. Polite, unobtrusive service. For the price (quite reasonable), I might be persuaded to return. Except for this: throughout the meal, the music playing was a scratchy recording of traditional Swiss yodeling piped through one small, tinny speaker. THAT, my friends, is the soundtrack of hell.

:laugh:

I have a CD called: "Mary Schneider, Australia's Queen of Yodeling, Yodels the Classics". You have not lived until you've heard The William Tell Overture yodeled.

You know, I think those Christmas albums where dogs and cats bark and meow Christmas carols would give scratchy yodeling a run for its money.

Gourmet Anarchy

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I cannot elevate her status to "chef," but one of my younger sisters will be preparing all the food in Hell. The irony isn't lost on me, as she is the so-called "Christian" who has assured me for years that it is I who will burn for eternity. (I prefer to call people of her ilk not Christians, but "Bible-ists"--hence my long-standing nickname for her: "PsychoBible.")

All food at PsychoBible's house comes from cans or packages. To my knowledge, the only fresh produce she's ever bought would be tomatoes, so she can make tomato sandwiches (on Wonder Bread, slathered with Miracle Whip: the Devil's food). Everything else is parsed from boxes and bags, and then heated to death: to grizzly, lifeless, tasteless, mushy death.

Green beans (canned) are artfully adorned with Baco-Bits. Pre-packaged salads of iceberg lettuce are festooned with genetically engineered "baby carrots" (carrots which are, factually, the remnants of large, woody, unsaleable carrots that have been put through the equivalent of a rock tumbler and sold for ten times the price they'd fetch in their whole state). Frozen meatlike entrées are smothered in Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup and garnished with packaged onion soup, like a 1950s party dip come back to life in Frankenstein's laboratory.

Steaks and burgers are well-done (no matter how badly done): paranoia about everything in general comes into keen focus in the kitchen. Bacteria must NOT give you a chance to meet your Maker before you're due. (I find this ironic. If you want to see Uncle Jesus so much, why fear death?)

Seasoning in the Kitchen of Hell, under PsychoBible's hands, becomes a revived art form. Her motto: additives make things taste better! Bottles and bottles of toxic condiments line her shelves, only in Hell, she won't have to reach for Smoke-Flavored BBQ sauce. The natural ambient smoke should add a nice flavor to dishes year-round.

The only music PsychoBible will brook (no surprise here): big-hat country and Soothing Christian Tunes. And by "tunes," I mean "white people clapping on the downbeat." Come to think of it, though, there is also that second Christian genre, and that would be the moaning men and women who take authentic, badly written love songs, and change "you" to "Jesus" in the lyrics. Think Barry Manilow singing "Mandy," with "Mandy" being "Our Lord and Savior" instead..."when You came and You gave without taking, but I sent You away...".

Beverages: diet colas and other toxic waste, or extra-extra sweet iced tea with fake lemon flavor (mint extract optional). A large pitcher of ice-cold high-fructose corn syrup is available for thirst-quenching or just to pour onto your breakfast items (freezer waffles and pancakes).

Appetizers: Velveeta cheese "fondue," Vienna sausages, saltine crackers, and extra greasy buffalo wings.

All the "baked" (from packaged mixes) desserts are stale. The mandatory Jell-O salad, a lovely preternatural green, contains an assortment of pimiento-stuffed olives, canned pineapple, canned pears, and maraschino cherries.

Dinner companions, naturally, are exactly who you'd expect to find in Hell: "Doctor" Laura, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, and Michael Jackson. PsychoBible is conflicted between her inclination towards racism (even though Michael Jackson's hardly black any more) and her desire to suck up to celebrities: Hell provides so many chances for name-dropping, you see.

We all sit down to a table with a plastic floral-themed tablecloth, plastic cutlery, and Chinette plates. Paper napkins are folded into God-fearing rectangles, and a large plastic flower arrangement (God-fearing daisies, patriotic carnations, Made-in-the-USA chrysthanthemums) is a real eye-catcher. Literally. The daisy heads are loose, and those wires are a real danger.

After a prayer that goes on for (seemingly) an eternity, the food is cold and coagulated, and PsychoBible is ready to eat.

Repent at leisure.

Edited by tanabutler (log)
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The only music PsychoBible will brook (no surprise here): big-hat country and Soothing Christian Tunes. And by "tunes," I mean "white people clapping on the downbeat." Come to think of it, though, there is also that second Christian genre, and that would be the moaning men and women who take authentic, badly written love songs, and change "you" to "Jesus" in the lyrics. Think Barry Manilow singing "Mandy," with "Mandy" being "Our Lord and Savior" instead..."when You came and You gave without taking, but I sent You away...".

this is by far the funniest thing i've read in a while.

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tanabutler, the irony is that you've described many a person's heaven.

Not only many people's version of Heaven, but many, many Mormon gatherings!

I'm a canning clean freak because there's no sorry large enough to cover the, "Oops! I gave you botulism" regrets.

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Meat is served bloody raw or cooked dry as a bone. Everything is under-salted, unless it is so over-salted you can’t eat it. Only margarine and no-fat salad dressings are available. Mashed potatoes are served cold and coleslaw warm. Canned vegetables are cooked one hour in a pressure cooker. The only herbs allowed are mint and cilantro; the only spices are cloves and allspice. There are no desserts. There is no water, of course. Coffee is available, but bitter as bile.

Menu planning is sadistic: foods do not compliment each other, and special dinners have themes like “red and sweet”: hot dogs with catsup, beets, red Jell-O, and cinnamon apples. Food occasionally looks appetizing to get your hopes up, but tastes terrible.

No one is ever allowed to talk about food, either to complain about the disgusting stuff we’re being fed or the good stuff we enjoyed in the previous life. No reading is allowed at table (or anywhere else, since this is my own private hell). My dining companions are….well, I don’t want to talk about them, it might ruin my appetite.

Edited by ruthcooks (log)

Ruth Dondanville aka "ruthcooks"

“Are you making a statement, or are you making dinner?” Mario Batali

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tanabutler, the irony is that you've described many a person's heaven.

Not only many people's version of Heaven, but many, many Mormon gatherings!

you're missing the little chicken salad sandwiches with grapes and almonds in it...and mormanaide (sprite and some random fruit beverage) and the many jello creations other than salad......oh god the jello...

Edited by Bicycle Lee (log)

"Make me some mignardises, &*%$@!" -Mateo

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tanabutler, the irony is that you've described many a person's heaven.

I know. I know. :sad::sad::sad:

Have I mentioned she lives in Georgia? She used to go to one of those snake-handling churches, but now I think that's too exotic for her. She was probably too afraid they had germs.

Carpe California!

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hey now - i live in georgia. and i don't know any snake-handlers. i will admit when i first moved down here, i used to get lots of people trying to bring me to their church. like random individuals. girls at grocery stores, guys on the street. i must have had the northern heathen stink on me.

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Every meal would be cold. No heat. No microwave. All canned or preserved ingredients, and salt content would be doubled. No pots. Dining would be a selection of opened cans, with no utensils.

The ony beverage? Room temp milk. On it's expiration date.

I would be the only smoker a room full of former smokers. Note: There is a major difference between nonsmokers and former smokers.

Dinner music? A wide variety, all performed by the inimitable William Hung and a 5th grade tonette band.

I would be made the dishwasher every night.

And everything you could not make yourself eat would be shoved up your ass.

Edited by FistFullaRoux (log)
Screw it. It's a Butterball.
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My hell dinner companion is my ex-boyfriend. There are many carts of delicious, wonderful-smelling food being wheeled past by Satan's minions, who all look like Jude Law, but since my ex-boyfriend was violently jealous and would not eat anything, I can neither eat the food nor look at the minions. :angry:

We can only eat boneless-skinless chicken breasts, canned salsa, and white rice with nothing on it. And I have to cook them on a little tableside cart. We can only drink tepid water. And Bud Light. But the Bud Light is non-alcoholic. There is no wine. There is no vodka. :angry:

No coffee.

There are 2 TVs in hell. One plays "Parker Lewis Can't Lose" and the other one plays "Doogie Howser MD." Even Satan grows tired of these shows, though, and occasionally wants to hear some music. So the music is The Cars' "Shake It Up" over and over again. Until Satan turns the TVs back on.

There is only baking chocolate for dessert. And the worst thing is that I can see all my eG friends in a restaurant across the street, eating and drinking wonderful food and having a great time.

Noise is music. All else is food.

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JELL-O.

EDIT to add: Dining companion: Dr. Michael Jacobsen, of the Center for Science in the Public Interest.

EDIT AGAIN to add: the only problem with the Favorite Meal Forever school of thought is that you might actually enjoy the first few iterations. There's a case to be made for the disappointment that follows being lulled into a false sense of security... but this is Hell, after all, so shouldn't the suffering begin at once?

Edited by balmagowry (log)
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The only music PsychoBible will brook (no surprise here): big-hat country and Soothing Christian Tunes. And by "tunes," I mean "white people clapping on the downbeat." Come to think of it, though, there is also that second Christian genre, and that would be the moaning men and women who take authentic, badly written love songs, and change "you" to "Jesus" in the lyrics. Think Barry Manilow singing "Mandy," with "Mandy" being "Our Lord and Savior" instead..."when You came and You gave without taking, but I sent You away...".

Very reminicent of the South Park episode where the young 'uns attempted to become contemporary Christian pop stars. The goal was to change the lyrics of love songs from baby to Jesus. My favorite song title? "I Want to Finger-bang You, Jesus"

You know, it has to be comfoting to know you are going straight to hell. No purgatory, no indecision. It's like Sam Kinison used to say, "If you are going to miss going to heaven, MISS IT!! Don't leave any doubt. Don't wait and find out it was the pack of gum you boosted when you were 8 that's going to keep you out." That's what Parker and Stone have waiting for them.

Screw it. It's a Butterball.
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