I walked into the trendy new bistro downtown feeling like a sophisticated foodie, ready to tackle their infamous minimalistic menu. The kind of place where they’re so cool, they don’t even bother with words – just cryptic symbols and Instagram-worthy typography. I approached the counter, scanning the offerings, and landed on “Burnt Offering.” Hmm, intriguing? I asked the barista-looking waiter what that entailed, and he gave me a knowing smirk like we shared a culinary secret. “It’s our take on toast,” he said. Toast? That’s not a dish – that’s what you do to bread when you’re too lazy to make actual breakfast.
Now annoyance starts to simmer. Maybe the next item will be more substantial? I spotted “Fjord” – sounds Nordic, right? Nope! The waiter explained it was just plain yogurt with foraged berries on top. Foraged berries! I don’t forage for wild berries; I pick them from bushes that are already growing there, not ones placed artfully by a hipster with a man-bun and artisanal twigs.
But maybe “Dust Bowl” will be different? Sounds hearty – chili or stew, right? Oh no! It’s just microgreens – weeds they found in the alley behind their kitchen. Twenty bucks for dirt. My annoyance reaches critical mass; I’m about to detonate.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THIS ISN’T A MENU, IT’S A SERIES OF DISJOINTED WORDS STRUNG TOGETHER BY… Wait, no – what’s next? ‘Essence of Air’? Is that oxygen with wispy cotton candy strands?! Give me something real! Something with heft! Something with meat!” The waiter nods along, eyes sparkling with amusement. He’s entertained by my frustration, fueling my rage.
“Sir, maybe you’re just not understanding the concept,” he says, condescendingly. “Our menu is a journey of discovery, a culinary exploration of the human condition.” I’m about to respond when a woman at the next table chimes in.
“Oh, yes! I had ‘Fjord’ last week – life-changing!” She sips what looks like tap water with an ice cube. “It made me think about nature’s simplicity.” I stare, mouth agape, wondering if she’s serious or playing along.
The waiter leans in, grinning slyly. “Sir, maybe you just need to try our special: ‘A Single Slice of Melancholy’.” And it hits me – this wasn’t a menu; it was performance art. They weren’t feeding me; they were making me question reality.
I glance around the restaurant – everyone else seems in on the joke. Patrons smile knowingly, sipping their “Essence of Air” and nibbling “Burnt Offerings.” I’m trapped in a surreal culinary nightmare.
A chef emerges with a plate carrying what looks like a single wilted lettuce leaf. He presents it with a flourish: “Behold! ‘A Single Slice of Melancholy’!” The waiter chimes in, “It’s deconstructed – a commentary on human existence’s futility.”
I throw up my hands. “You’re not serving food; you’re gaslighting me into thinking this is edible!” The waiter chuckles and pats me on the back: “Sir, I think you’re starting to get it.” I storm out, feeling bewildered and exhilarated.
As I walk away, I turn back to see the waiter watching through the window, grinning. On the sidewalk outside: “Hal Larious ate here… sort of.” I shake my head, laughing, and continue down the street. Inside, patrons cheer and whistle like they’ve witnessed culinary magic.
I chuckle, realizing I’m still unsure what happened – clever prank or something profound? Either way, I’ll be back to see how far this absurdity can go.