Hash House A Go Go

They warned us. We heeded the warning and pressed on nonetheless.
Our imaginations and appetites tantalized by every passing plate – nay
– trough that passed by to be placed in front of others. And we
waited. We sipped our drinks. We dreamed of our own troughs, our own
moment of joy, our own private pancake paradise.

Then, the first dish came. Our heads cocked to peer over the enormous
rim into the confines of the trough. A Benedict rested there, larger
than any we had seen before, stacked high with bacon, tomato slices,
and eggs atop two halves of a huge, homemade biscuit. Sauce drenched
over this all unlike any Hollandaise we had ever seen or tasted. A
large, serrated steak knife plunged into the traitorously-named stack,
signaling to us that these eggs were indeed ready for consumption.

The next two arrived not in troughs, but in heavy iron skillets, made
more burdensome by the abundance of hash, potatoes, eggs, biscuits,
and fruit. The cornucopia of flavors in those dangerous pans made our
minds race. Where to begin? Chorizo or meatloaf? Does the first
bite need to encompass it all? Will we live to see the sunlight
again? Have I not lived till now? Through the biscuit a sprig of
rosemary pierced: a simple, fragrant accoutrement in the midst of
monumental cuisine.

Finally, there were pancakes. Bigger than our heads and smaller than
the moon, these pancakes were. One held bananas and brown sugar
inside, a soothing flavor that melted at first contact with our
tongues, seeped through our bodies, and took us to the moon on a slow,
mellow ship. The other pancake proffered blackberries and granola, a
bright combination that sparked our eyes to life and sent us to the
moon on a rocket blast of flavor. We took bites between the two,
alternating between the gentle and the vibrant. We filled ourselves
to capacity and, still, so much remained.

They had warned us. We heeded. We fed. And so much remained.
Twisted farm food, they called it. This was no farm. This was
Valhalla, Shangri-la, our Temple of Tastes. We left unfinished,
carrying paradise in Styrofoam boxes for the next day. Our senses
pleased, our stomachs full, our minds aflutter. For all we could
think to do was come again and feed at Hash House A Go Go.

--AG--