I have never tested the limits of my artery passages as much as when I visited the Lone Star State.
I’m fortunate to have two good friends in Dallas, who introduced me to the fried food fascination of the annual State Fair of Texas in 2006 and 2007. The month-long event kicked off this past weekend, and I feel strangely saddened that I won’t get the chance for an up-close-and-personal encounter with food that should only exist beyond the realm of possibility.
Never beyond my wildest food fantasies could I even fathom the existence of a Bacon of the Month Club. But then my friend Tim posted a picture on Facebook of his latest delivery as a member of this very-real club, I thought it was a lie and demanded to know if it was, to which Tim replied, “I would never lie about bacon.” And no one wins when someone lies about bacon.
No trip to the Windy City is complete without a serving of deep dish pizza.
Accompanied by a Chicago local — my friend Alfred’s 10th cousin, or some other distant relation — we managed to score a booth at Giordano’s for lunch on a tourist-crowded Saturday afternoon during the Labour Day weekend.
The menu options were many and varied, though I was skeptical about one particular ingredient that was apparently a staple on the Tropic Delight.
The “vegi” (side note: There really needs to be a style on what I would generally spell “veggie,” but that’s just the angry copy editor in me talking) ended up being one of the two medium-sized stuffed pies we ordered. Having experienced the cheese overload of deep dish pizza three years ago, I warned everyone that one medium would be plenty for six of us. They didn’t listen. A special — complete with sausage, mushrooms, green peppers and onions — rounded out our order.
Well, almost. Alfred insisted that his consumption would be up to par, so against my warning, he decided that a calamari dish to whet his appetite was a good idea.
Even the battered and deep fried squid rings didn’t approve.
The unimpressed line-mouthed face staring up at us from the grease-shined, lettuce-lined plate didn’t last long, and neither did the remaining wait for the pizza.
When the giant stuffed pie duo arrived, taking up all remaining space on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, the wide-eyed looks on my friends’ faces caused me to utter out some version of “I told you so.”
But hunger overrode all senses and gooey slices found homes on our plates.
The first slice is always the easiest and usually goes down without a hitch. But getting into second helpings puts you into coronary territory, resulting in expanded bellies, food sweats and cries of “No more!”
Despite vehement head-shaking and waving an imaginary white flag — and hating to see food go to waste — I managed to choke down another slice in several stages over the next half-hour. Poor Alfred held out his hands in protest, but another two or three slices ended up in front of him and they, too, eventually disappeared.
We made good work of it.
Relatively speaking.
So much for the so-called instant win.
Snapped at a Subway on our way back from the Labour Day weekend in Chicago.
