Callaway's might be heaven, or
at least spaghetti enchantment
November 7, 2008 | If I could find a way to make sweet
love to Callaway's spaghetti, I would. It is borderline
perfect. It makes my mother's taste like dog shit, even
though hers tastes that way normally. I started my trek
to Smithfield Tuesday evening to eat my life away and
then write about what my mouth was experiencing. Tragic
I know, but it was my cross to bear.
Before I start wowing you with talk of green goddess
dressing on side salads and chilled merlot, keep in
mind I'm a professional eater. And by professional I
mean that I have been eating approximately two meals
a day for the last 23.9 years of my life. That, my friends,
is around 17,208 meals in my lifetime. Now I'm not really
into bragging, but that's a lot of food. Considering
that my mother can't cook and makes spaghetti at least
three nights a week, I would have to consider myself
a spaghetti expert. This is just the facts. Science
if you will.
Back to Callaway's. I ran one helluva train on their
breadsticks. They are tricky little bastards and I almost
didn't try one. Thank God (debatable) I did. They resemble
an alien-like finger. E.T.'s finger, minus the light
on the tip and the finger's flexibility. Regardless
of their outer appearance, the breadsticks are ridiculously
delish. I had the brilliant idea (duh) of dipping mine
into a little bit of heaven also known as Balsamic.
Good call on my part, per the usual.
During my breadstick affair, another lover of mine
stepped up to the plate. My relationship with a good
glass (glasses) of wine is the only relationship I have
been able to fully commit to. Wine doesn't cheat or
bitch about your skirt being too short, it simply loves.
Plus, if you're feeling elegant, you can get all that
toothsome flavor in a box. With a spout. I wouldn't
lie to you.
A box was not on the menu for me this evening (sigh),
so I settled for somewhere between three and eight glasses
of a flavorful merlot (only old women count). Not dry.
Not harsh. Decent I would say. The third glass might
as well have been water considering that I burnt off
all my taste buds when my pasta came out. On a scale
of 1-10 I would rate it at an "It got the job done."
In between the waitress being a huge buzz kill ( i.e.
"you really want another glass?") and my realization
that my date had a monster nose, I was served a side
salad. This is the part where I discover what a gem
the green goddess dressing is. The salad is simple but
it won me over with quality romaine and black olives.
Our waitress (she seemed boring) kept teasing me by
bringing out everyone else's food and not mine. A deep
hate for her started to burn inside me until she decided
to stop being such a Debbie Downer and finally brought
me my entrée. Spaghetti enchantment ensued. It may have
been all the sweet nectar of the earth (read: merlot)
I was downing, but I'm a quality 98 percent sure it
was the promised land.
Since I'm an architect of taste buds, I opted for
angel hair pasta with the original spaghetti sauce and
meatballs. Another good call. I was four balls deep
into my noodle dish before I realized how full I was.
My first instinct was to puke and rally but being in
public, I decided against it. I respectably decided
to get a box (not the wine kind) and take the remainder
home for one of my obese and vaugely pathetic roommates.