When eating out at chain restaurants, I almost always find stuffed mushrooms on the menu. And I’ve never been disappointed. Until yesterday.
After some late morning shopping, my husband Dave and I grabbed lunch at a popular seafood restaurant, which shall remain nameless for reasons that will become apparent momentarily. If you really must know, here’s a hint: It rhymes with Dead Mobster.
I’m not a big seafood eater by nature. Indeed, when the waitress asked what I wanted, I inquired as to which items came wrapped in bacon. Only the scallops did, but I do not like scallops, Sam I am. So I opted for two standards: mozzarella sticks and stuffed lobster and crabmeat mushrooms.
I asked for the cheese sticks to come out with Dave’s soup, and I’d have the mushrooms when his scallops and shrimp dish was ready.
We plowed through our appetizers with hearty enthusiasm and devoured their most excellent seasoned biscuits. It was a good thing I got filled up on sides because one of us couldn’t eat any more after that.
Soon Dave’s entree and my mushrooms arrived.
Dave made fast work of his bacon-wrapped scallops and shrimp, while I took a stab at the stuffed mushrooms. Within milliseconds, I knew I wouldn’t be finishing it because it tasted like the lobster and crab meat was mixed ala Lucy and Ethel in the classic I Love Lucy grape stomping episode.
Why? Because it smelled and tasted like FEET.
And not just any feet. Feet that ran the Boston Marathon, their sweat marinating in socks for six hours in broiling heat. And then baked in an oven, smothered in Camembert cheese. Feety enough for you?
My problem wasn’t so much that I hated my feet mushrooms, but that Dave was enjoying his shrimp and scallops dish. I didn’t want to complain immediately that my meal tasted like sweaty socks and ruin his own meal.
So I kept poking at it, announcing that I was simply too full to eat it. I also didn’t want to have to tell the waitress that they served me funky baked, feety-cheesed feet. As I poked around more, I noticed the mushrooms appeared uncooked and resembled brain matter. Yum.
I didn’t ask for the body part special, but this is what I was served. If this were a smell-a-blog, you’d all be gagging and running for the nearest exit.
As you can see, when presented with a plate of feet and brain, the first thing any respectable blogger does is take a picture of it. Ah, but don’t be fooled. It looked delicious at the time, but I wound up taking it home and throwing it directly in the trash. (Don’t worry. I’m not taking that bag out.)
The fact is, we were fooled. How? Because we decided to eat there based on a beautifully-shot commercial for this restaurant that aired on the Food Network, better known as Porn for Fat People.
We hadn’t eaten at Dead Mobster for about twenty years because we weren’t overly excited about their food. But we let expert editing and mouth-watering visuals get the best of us.
Truth be told, Dave thoroughly enjoyed his entree, though I chalk that up to the mere presence of bacon. If we decide in another twenty years to visit, at least I won’t be ordering the ten-toe special. I recommend you avoid it as well. See, I’m always thinkin’ of you guys.
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