Tuesday, September 13, 2005
I'll Have The Buffett Buffet, Please.
Does this look like the kind of guy who spent a lot of time eating salads?
I was just thinking yesterday that I never want to have a food named after me. For one thing, if food (or anything else for that matter) is named after you, you're probably dead. There's an outside shot that you're a multi-gazillionaire like Eddie Basha (Basha High School, et al), or Paul Newman (Salad Dressings) but chances are you're just dead. I'm guessing that Reuben, Hoagie, Stroganoff, Benedict, and Delmonico are all taking a dirt nap about now.
Another problem with naming food after you is that the food might taste like shit, thus causing an uncomfortable association with your name:
Damn, this Althof stew tastes like ass.
I had the Metivier Special yesterday, and it gave me the screaming shits. Next time, I'm having the GoatBurger.
If you've ever gotten really sick from over-consumption of something, like flavored vodka, candy, or on one very ill-advised occasion, Frito Pie with Wolf Brand Chili and Extra Cheese, you very likely developed an aversion to that food that may well last you a lifetime. You don't want your name attached to that:
Gawd, I hurled those Pfister Margaritas all night long. I'll never, ever do that again.
But having a food named after you can also simply give people the wrong idea about you. Take Caesar, for example. I've been watching HBO's new series Rome for a couple of weeks, and if I've learned anything, it's that Caesar was one bad-ass dude. He used overwhelming force to dominate his entire world, then crushed Pompey Magnus in civil war, was named dictator of Rome for life, took 23 stab wounds to die, and appointed as his heir his adopted son, Caesar Augustus. It was under that guy's watch that his flunky Herod ordered the death of every boy in Bethlehem just to try and whack Jesus. These dudes made Saddam Hussein look like a pussy.
So how did these great and omnipotent Caesars manage to get a salad named after them? And not just any salad, but a wimpy-ass salad with no guy stuff in it, like boiled eggs, ham, pepperoni, and those litte chunks of cheese. No, that's a Chef Salad, named for some French cook. France. You, know, that country that Caesar raped and pillaged way back when it was still called "Gaul," and they have yet to grow back their nuts.
That's probably it. It had to be the French who named all this stuff. It's their idea of getting even.
Hah! Sacre bleu, you Roman bedwetting types! Our asses you may have keeked, but we have named a silly leetle salad after your greatest leader! Veectory is ours! Vive le France!
That's why we have Freedom Fries, you pricks.
