Speaking of revolt…
To vomit is to make less the depth of grief. Still ill from our evening last, I have but little ink I will to spill over this matter, for time is too precious to squander over a love unrequited. It is over. Sod off. I thought I should wait until after the two-year anniversary, but this needs to stop before it goes too far. Plus, what is there to celebrate? Your corporate growth? Your bottom line? Your multiple convenient to reach by car locations?
You started off as such a good thing. I was quick to introduce you to all of my friends and family. And almost overnight, you lost the plot. Yet, your belly grows still larger the more you aspire to be the Colonel Sanders of budget health food, complete with the branding of some sage Sikh mascot chanting slogans of health ironically printed on your plethora of postconsumer waste. I liked you better as a simple man, plus the beard and turban do not make you look any younger and suggest ignorance rather than wisdom. If you are going to capitalise on the Sikh faith, then perhaps you should first learn its guiding principles before burning karma you do not have.
We began with two starters and should have stopped there. The only taste to the barley otto was fermentation, as if sat around in bucket for a few weeks. Next up, the Colonel’s six piece chicken box that contained the hummus. Quite a disappointment to find such a small portion in such a large package. Not a first. More paper waste than food. Two ramekins: one filled with hummus, the other a few canned olives. You were more generous with your sauce. The hummus too was off, bland at best. For future reference, vegetable oil is NOT an ingredient of hummus unless Bónus brand is your benchmark. Regular olive oil is only used a preservative top layer when large batches are stored over night or when being sold at open-air markets.
On to the main event, my Persian Naan-wich. I removed the soggy bandage to reveal a sweaty, beat up wrap that looks like it struggled to stand up through nine rounds. Like clutching at sand, the tortilla dissolves in my hands spilling its contents though my fingers. What a mess. The guts are revealed. Does paring cucumber with tomato really qualify this as Persian? And the meat: it looks and tastes like saltkjöt. I thought Tuesday was saltkjöt and bean day. All of your extra sauces could not mask this taste.
Then my date shows me the cold, soggy Kebab Naan-wich and its sad little shrivelled up limp twig of a reheated sausage drowned in sour cream. All of this food seemed like it was left over from the weekend, maybe longer. What happened to the Saffran I fell in love with? Where is all of this wholesome goodness that the mascot proclaims? And fresh? Fresh compared to what, the pig grade produce of Bónus?
Despite my hunger, I cannot bear another bite. This is not fit for man nor beast, to the bin it all goes. Luckily there is some three-day-old Persian kebab left over from Eldhrímnir in the refrigerator. Plain, cold, and three days old still knocks out anything I tasted all day.
Is it me? Is it the size and taste of the kebab on that tall dark Persian stranger at Borgartún that drove me away? No. It is you. You changed. Take a long look in the mirror. Better yet, maybe that wise Sikh can offer you some advice. See you later.
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