Lo, the Mighty Buffalo! Wo, the Frightening Buffalo Burger!
Neither of us actually ate a Buffalo Burger, despite the fact that we were dining in the Taj Mahal of this most curious culinary commodity. We did end up eating quite a few Buffalo Chips, however, which we found to be considerably more palatable than your average animal dropping. The food was very inexpensive, pretty tasty, and was accompanied by an impressive selection of beers. Among these various brews we were pleased to find Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, brewed in Andy's own hometown. Chico. Not Chino.
You should see their menu. So impressed were we by its crackliness, that we decided to bring one home for all our friends and readers to see. Casually horking a menu on the way out, we were accosted by the Buffalo Patrol.
"What'll we do with 'em?" "Let's throw 'em in the cellar."
We found ourselves, quite befuddledly, in the dark. The damp subterranean catacombs beneath Route 66 stretched before us in a vast expanse of nothingness so smacking of a Sam Raimi film.
Above the various sounds you would expect to hear in such a spooky cavern, such as the ubiquitous echo of a dripping stalactite that no self-actualized spooky cavern would be without, we made out the weathered voice of a spry old man quietly reverberating through the endless void of underbound, underground darkness.
"There's a fresh soul in the fruit cellar..."
Guided by the raspy voice and the faint green illumination of a special-issue glow-in-the-dark lambskin prophylactic, we came across the emaciated and near-lifeless form of a landlocked sailor shackled to the corroded remains of a giant ship's anchor.
His eyes were fixed beyond us as he began his tale of gastroculinary debauchery. "My only wish was to bring happiness to the families of Claremont in the form of affordable, quality seafood in an authentic atmosphere. It was supposed to be the kind of place where one could hear the joyous choruses of `I'll swallow your sole, I'll swallow it whole' above the felicitous clamor of schlucking octopi as gleeful diners tied lobster bibs around their necks."
We shared a look of unearthly, sole-devouring horror as the green glow of understanding permeated our skulls while the sailor detachedly continued his solemn confession. "May God forgive me for what I have unleashed unto this earth..."
This man before us, now duly punished, was the demented Creator of Das Schrimp Haus.
At last, this great Evil had manifested itself in the flesh. Would we valiantly recite the all-purpose ancient passages and dispel this unearthly being once and for all, or would we simply turn towards one another and stand there poking out each other's eyeballs in defeat? More importantly, what would our abusively charismatic hero "Dead by Dawn" Ash do?
We both smiled dreamily as we pictured ourselves slicing off each other's right hands, holstering double-barreled sawed-off shotguns, and firing up diesel-fueled chainsaws welded to our bloody wrist stumps as we uttered unspeakably succinct diatribes. Groovy.
But for the sake of maintaining a believable article, we decided instead to drop the menu and run.
Actually, we did manage to hang onto the menu, just to spite the Buffalo Patrol, and to swipe an appropriate closing paragraph:
"Oh, by the way, if this is a stolen menu and you're reading it in a
friend's bathroom, you might like to know that we're located at 1814
West Foothill in Upland, CA. That's half-a-block east of Central, in a
real good neighborhood. Or call (909) 981-5515 if you want food to
go, good advice, or just someone to talk to."
Who's laughing now?