Everydayfoodeater | Arkansas news, politics, opinion, restaurants, music, movies and art

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Recent Comments

Re: “Don't pass on Capital Bar and Grill's pimento

Among the more esoteric of non canon gnostic gospels translated in the past decade or so exists the gospel of Joseph of Arimathea, who prepared Jesus body for burial. As it turns out he did a rather poor job of it. Luckily however, he was tipped off by Nicodemus that his supervisor was going to go check out his work (there had been complaints) so he backtracked to the tomb. Now most gospels have spice bearing women discover Jesus absence the next day, but Joseph of Arimathea, as these new found gospels tell, beat them to it while going back that night to touch up his work.
Upon rolling the rock from the door of the tomb, he was shocked to find a living Jesus stepping out of the casket, shucking off all his death wrappings or whatever. Joseph of Arimathea was stunned, he began to panic as he backed out of the tomb, but Jesus stopped him. He said. "Fear not Joseph; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, but lo, in my stead I leave unto you this portion of His reward given freely. Eat of it, and do not weep." Then Jesus motioned over to several barrels which contained the finest Pimiento Cheese in all of Jerusalem. Then Jesus took off out of that tomb like it was the 40 yard dash at the combine. Joseph, being a devout man, did as he was told, and he ate all that Pimento cheese right there on the spot. He would talk about how good that stuff was for years, though no one really believed him.

Posted by Everydayfoodeater on 08/26/2013 at 9:11 AM

Re: “The 3 Best: Pizza

In a dusty bare cinder block room a yellow light filters through dirty high windows and settles onto it's lone appointment, a folding wood veneer card table upon which a worn Nokia 5110 cell phone sings it's familiar tone. Like the warble of a bird from a time and place in one's youth that sits upon the very edge of memory, it speaks into the emptiness of the room.

A solitary figure frames the doorway, Ibugazan leather digs into the sand and dust as the man approaches the table. Pulling aside his cheich, the solemn traveler answers the telephone and upon listening in silence, nods: "Yes, it is done." He turns and digs a worn passport from a pocket in his burnous, gazing at the picture of a man that has seen the unseen, walked with ghosts, in this world he is known as واحد الذي ياكل خبزا يوميا but to those who truly know him, he is... everydayfoodeater.

A world away, atop a brown brick building at the intersection of two busy streets in a too busy town an American flag stirs in the hot summer breeze. Stories below, the Arkansas Times staff is sitting down to a pleasant lunch in their office. A buffet has been set up with an array of assorted pizza slices representing the very finest of Little Rock's four thousand pizza restaurants. The staff is jovial, ad revenue has been pouring in like rain into a left down car window. Sauces and cheese dance across the table and the page in turn. People begin piling their plates, chattering about some latest happening at the Chamber of Commerce, and just as Lindsay Miller holds aloft his Napoli-style slice to take a bite, a distant rumble is heard that makes him pause.

The rumble becomes louder, and closer, and suddenly a black shadow passes outside the window at unfathomable speed. The Times Staff sets down their plates and crowds to the windows in just enough time to to see the McDonnell Douglas F15 strike eagle bank hard and soar into the clouds. The speeding plane however, has seemed to drop something, a black speck falling from the sky. It seems to be nearing the building at incredible speed, is it some kind of missile? No, it looks like it might be a... person. No one could survive this fall. People gathering in the street look up and watch in horror as the body tumbles towards certain death upon the roof of the Marriot hotel. But no, in an instant the person spreads their arms and legs in time to engage some type of wingsuit and change direction, a collision course, with the Times office window.

As the Times staff retreats from the glass, it explodes, sending a hail of crystallized shrapnel into the carpet and ceiling. The dust settles and the terrified staff press back against the wall, and slowly a form begins to rise from the wreckage as the scent of a cigar permeates the room, it is a man. A man in military fatigues. He strides over to the buffet table and kicks it over, sending pizza and diet mountain dew skittering across the office carpet. Tilting back his worn WWII era helmet he looks up, his flinty grey eyes playing across the assembled staff as he takes a long drag off of the Cohiba. Squinting, he cocks his head sideways and brushes off the dirty badge and medals across his chest: pizza medals. The general holds up a greasy box with a familiar red stamp, and throws it at the feet of the assembled writers and editors. He chomps at the cigar before dropping it into the receptionist's coffee mug. "Looks like y'all forgot to invite someone to the party..." Just then a full grown live bald eagle flies in through the window wreckage and lands on the General's shoulder.

Music begins to play, loud music, and it seems to be coming from the street below. The general turns and makes his way to where the window was as the staff cautiously follows. The song becomes increasingly distinguishable as AC/DC's "Who Made Who" blasting at incredibly loud volume from a vehicle below. The tinted truck window rolls down, and the driver looks up at the General framed in the remnants of the Arkansas Times window and salutes. The General returns the salute. The driver then adjusts the cloth covering his face and steers the F150 Raptor onto North Scott Street, burning rubber the whole way.

7 likes, 7 dislikes
Posted by Everydayfoodeater on 07/24/2013 at 12:15 PM

Re: “A first look at Mellow Mushroom

Special other person and I went to this mellow mush-room. Sat at the bar, that was the available seating because the table wait times stretched well into fall 2015 but that is fine because the bar is near the beer, which I love but of which there is too much of. Waiwhat? Too much beer? But hear me out. There comes a point where excessive choice renders both experimentation and informed decision overwhelming and pointless. Like Mr. Doe sang: "we got 7 kinds of coke, 500 kinds of cigarettes, this freedom of choice in the USA drives everybody crazy" Exactly, it does. That is why places with too much selection are anathema to me. What do I want you ask? I don't know. I can not ever know, there's too much imperfect information, too many unknowns. (and why does every beer that doesn't come in a realtree american flag commemorative 30 pack taste like someone just dumped a full truck of cascade hops into it? Sheesh give the cascade hops a break beer dudes)
Anyways then we spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out who the guy in the mural on the wall was. Special other thought it was maybe Hunter Thompson or Kesey, I was thinking Albert Hoffman but then I figured it out, it's Aldous Huxley duh, perception.
But we came here not to talk about that, we came to talk chain pizza in faux-psychedelic environments. A lot of my friends don't care for acid nowadays, they had bad times, fears, things like that. They swear they would never touch it again. I guess have been fortunate because in the psychedelic realm I was able to battle and overcome most of these terrors and work my way through them to realize that we are just pointless squeaky, leaky, meat sacks plopped onto a stupid rock in the vast blackness of space. While I don't do acid anymore I still have fond memories of all the beings I met: The digital dragon, the orange wave indians... some ants from the future. I climbed mountains in complete darkness while impossible shapes filled my entire awareness. I have seen billions of eons into the past and seen the lifeforms that inhabited those spaces. It was absolutely unfathomably incredible, this pizza however is just okay.

Pizza is hard to wreck, but if you want to try, start with the crust. The crust on this pizza is sweet, like way sweet, they could have subcontracted this shit out to cinnabon it is that silly. It is my main, and only real issue with this pizza, I had two slices of the ridiculously named Kosmic Karma and I was full like I ate birthday cake. The four beers I drank during the wait didn't help probably, however, because it was sprayed with sugar I kept on eating it, way after I was full, like some kind of future ant.


8 likes, 5 dislikes
Posted by Everydayfoodeater on 06/26/2013 at 4:00 PM

Re: “Food Fight: Damgoode Pies is really just dammediocre

Damgoode large cheese hand tossed with pink sauce is the greatest pizza in Arkansas straight up, why in the world would you even take all that time to be born, go to school, graduate college, live all those years, then move to this state, and write this "mediocrity" business to besmirch the good name of our beloved institution? I mean, Zaza? Really? If you want a cracker with some fancy euro cheese and homeopathic rosemary or whatever on it that is fine, it is what it is, and it is good at it. Have a salad, hang out in the heights. But this is murica where we eat real murican pizza and goddammit Damgoode does it proper. I went to eat there once and when they opened the oven to get a pizza a real living bald eagle flew out. Damgoode is so American every one of their delivery drivers has a Ford f150 Raptor, a .357 magnum, and staggering credit card debt. You cannot flex on Damgoode. Like Budweiser is the king of beers, Damgoode the king of pizza, unless there is a place called Pizza King and if there is, then that is the king, and Damgoode is a 4 star pizza general or pizza president or something.

50 likes, 0 dislikes
Posted by Everydayfoodeater on 11/15/2012 at 9:34 AM


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