What would you do if you were at a restaurant and they served you cold french-fries? What about a baked potato that was room temperature, much less cold? Chilly mashed potatoes? Gross, right? You’d send it back. Or throw it at a wall. Or your brother.
So why does anyone in their right mind like potato salad? Talk about gross? It’s like icy clam chowder smothered in mayonnaise, without the only good part – the clams.
Potato salad looks like kindergarten puke. You remember. That one kid Billy who seemed to always throw up once a month in the hallway right outside of the classroom and it would splatter all over the place leaving potato salad shrapnel on baseboards, open space ten feet away and inevitably landing on some unlucky pink dress wearing girl’s shoes unbeknownst to her despite the lingering stench and the dried-up chunk on the left toe.
And then the janitor shows up with that huge metal bucket and mop and after cleaning up he sprinkles something that looks like cat litter all over the scene of the Plinian eruption which smells even worse than the original potato salad vomit.
That is what I think of when I see potato salad. Why would anyone put that in their mouth?
Which one is puke and which one is potato salad? Without the presentation, it would be impossible to tell!
Not quite as bad as potato salad is Brussels sprouts. Every trendy restaurant has Brussels sprouts on their menu and often are known for them to the point where all the hipsters and foodies rave about them and insist I try them. I tell them no. I don’t like Brussels sprouts. Don’t even get me started on their slippery testicle texture. I know, I know, they can be baked or shredded or manipulated in some way to make them less nutsy. So then we get to taste. The foodie hipster will rave about how yummy these Brussels sprouts are at this particular Asian Fusion Mexican Bistro Farm to Table Masterpiece of a Restaurant and that I simply must try them! I say, “No thanks. I don’t like Brussels sprouts.” They insist. So, I cave in and try some fancy Brussels sprouts that are the talk of the town.
I take a bite and make a face like a child eating liver. I force it down and chase it with whiskey and the wine of the asshole that made me try it. I look at their surprised face and raised eyebrows and say, “You know what these taste like? Brussels sprouts.”
You put lipstick on a pig and you still have a pig.
Potato salad and Brussels sprouts have other issues as well. They are both irritating to spell. Why I have to capitalize a vegetable is beyond me. Does any other produce get that kind of royalty? Let’s see, I need to pick up Red peppers, Sweet corn and Baby lettuce today. Dumb. I find it hard to believe that every restaurant in the meat packing district of New York City is getting their goddamn Brussels sprouts from Belgium. And they can’t just call them sprouts now can they? That is something entirely different; and edible!
As for potato salad, I wasn’t a fan of Dan Quale but I gave him a hall pass for making it ‘potatoe’ at the twelve-year old spelling bee. Honest mistake that isn’t limited to just dimwits. After all, there are lots of ways around this potential misspelling on menus across the globe. No chef has to label his sides actually using the word ‘potato’ by going with fries, mashers, twice-baked and what not. However, there really is no alternative to the pile of chunky bile that is potato salad. What else can you call it besides perhaps potatoe salad?
I’m way more willing to eat Brussels sprouts than I am potato salad. Little Billy’s pukey cold whitish-yellow glop of potato salad just isn’t gonna fly. Flash fry me some Brussels sprouts and shred ‘em up so all I have to deal with is that they still taste like Brussels sprouts and I’ll be fine (as long as I have a full drink at hand).
Its lunch time and for some reason I’ve lost my appetite.