"You'll go in for a bite and it has the texture of a tomato but it tastes like re-barfed worms that a mother bird evacuates into its baby's mouth. Suddenly the skin on this plant you're eating will puncture and a carcass of seeds and whatnot will flop onto your tongue."
I had a conversation with Doberman earlier today about how much soup can weird me out. It's tasty and all, but it's also a mystery. A grisly murder mystery made of parts of things. It's an underwater cave that heroes of Greek myth can only swim to when the tides are right. And who the fuck knows what you're going to find in there! Your local soup vendor may warn you of the soup's contents. Tortellini and cheese. Well, OK, that sounds good. We'll order it and instantly regret not asking the standard follow-up question: Are there going to be any cave monsters or minotaurs in there once we dive in, searching for tortellini? Wait, the water is what color? The plants in there look like what? We get the soup, look into its depths, and we start imagining the self-sustaining eco-systems that live inside the mouth of a whale, with microscopic worlds and their amber waves of strange, vag-shaped plants. We hope for the best, we inject a tiny bit of optimism.
Pretty soon, you're in the cave and you're jabbing at the advertised contents that you can actually see and identify, maybe wading into the deeper, darker end of the broth. Something's in there. But you're not quite sure. It's dark. And it's heavy. And it doesn't stay on your spoon very well. Something's making it slippery. Pretty soon, you're digging chunks of stuff out of the broth. It just sits there, dripping off of your spoon like a fat kid too scared to jump off a diving board. Do you trust it? Can you even identify it? A plant? You'll go in for a bite and it has the texture of a tomato but it tastes like re-barfed worms that a mother bird evacuates into its baby's mouth. Suddenly the skin on this plant you're eating will puncture and a carcass of seeds and whatnot will flop onto your tongue. Well, fuck, you don't want to look like a pussy, afraid of soup, so dive in deeper! Pretty soon, you're IN the soup, spooning up these fear-vaggies. C'mon, optimism, optimism! Oh, but we can't even keep that facad going! It's terrible, weird, and digestion is the only thing that can kill these dick-weeds. When this happens, we'll occasionally start avoiding the parts of the soup we like. We'll go after the weird, spotted, seed-encrusted, 3-shade pepper ball. It looks like a testicle. Fuck it, we're going in. We'll at least have that one good bit of tortellini when we get through all of these. We paid $5 for soup, we've gotta get our money's worth!
What if the restaurant just loads the soup up with this shit, lets the customer get one look at it, and dumps your half-eaten bowl back into the pot? We've never worked in the food-prep world, and we have no friends, so we can't confirm these kinds of theories. We think of this kind of stuff and we feel like damn geniuses -- that we've stumbled upon their skeevy fucking scam. What? Soup? Yes, it's 8 types of ancient Greek cave-vegetables and local pastas. They never mention that the broth is made from 69% human backwash and it tastes like burned soap.
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