Monday, March 7

If you smell fish, it's not me.

People don't like change.  Yes, I'm lumping you (and me) all into one big herd.  Moo.  If you like change, you're probably a llama in my herd.*

Anyway, the pizzeria where I work got rid of our most popular salad.  I'm not going to speculate on the reason, but I don't imagine that it was done out of spite... and yet, it is interesting to see the look on some people's faces when they ask for it without looking at the menu to discover that it is no longer there.

In its place we have a new salad (yay change!) that is a classic ceasar salad and includes anchovies.  So now, while standing at the salad station, I have anchovies coming at me from the front and the back (we also have an appetizer that is a sort of broth that includes anchovies and it sits in the crock-pot behind me).  It translates as "warm bath" and reminds me of the TShirt that one of our pizza-dudes wears that says "submerged in boiling flesh" on the back.

*I probably shouldn't write blogs when I'm woozy on medication.


Janus said...

I am now having a Buffy The Vampire Slayer flashback: "Anchovies, anchovies, you're so delicious; I love you more than all the other fishes."

Nick said...

*I probably shouldn't write blogs when I'm woozy on medication.

Sorry, Pizza Girl, I disagree.

Blogging when one is stoned/tweaked/baked/crunked/blitzed/buzzed/blasted/and/or otherwise buttered-up are an invaluable part of the blogging experience.

You should blog every time you're woozy on medication.

By the way, I get where you're coming from. I can handle anchovies, long as they stay where I can see em—it's when those fuckers mount a rear attack that I start getting a little paranoid.

I don't smell fish. But that doesn't mean the stinky little bastards aren't lurking about—hiding in broth, submerged in boiling llama flesh, corrupting a perfectly good caesar sald—is it not enough that the dressing is rife with the stuff?—liable to turn up anywhere.