After a night of testosterone, silicone and self-tanner induced mania (the AFC fight night) we stumbled on this place in an attempt to a satiate late-night penchant for self-degredation. On the menu I found a seemingly Franco-Irish inspired sandwich called the "Filet O'Fish". I am sure I've had one before but perhaps the experience had the side-effect of wiping my memory of it's ingestion - we'll never know. This is why I should get this down in writing asap. It's shiny exterior has it's allure (dig deeper for that pun) but I warn those of you who follow in my questionable footsteps to avoid any further investigation. Just get it over with as soon as possible and shut out the protests of your friends. It will transport you back to the days of being a young child with workaholic parents who served food from boxes before the days of "panko-inspired' breading, when sawdust as a bulking agent was an acceptable ingredient. The 'juice' that exudes from its interior is somehow clearer than water - maybe that's what Chris was looking into when he foresaw the horrors to come (pic after the jump). The 'tang' of the sauce is eye-watering and will remain with you like the taste of a smell that came from the back of your elementary school locker (in my case, that would be a week old cheeze whiz, tuna, pickle sandwich - not a far cry from my criminal entree this evening, come to think of it.)
Whatever your take on the integrity of this post, it will never be said that I descriminate in my epicurean adventures. Leave no stone unturned but if that stone happens to be a filet o'fish rest assured there will be consequences. My palate might be ranked on a sliding scale (wawawa) but I've gotta set the standard of zero if I'm going to find my ten.
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