This past month, I sampled various courses at several of the local churches here in the Big Apple. I came upon this journey expecting a few good meals in my stomach (and a few bad ones), but I left with more than that. I ended this journey with a deeper understanding of life, morals, and god or something.
The first church I made a reservation at was St. Patrick's Cathedral on Madison Ave. I called about four hours before I planned on eating and then didn't eat after the call, so that I would be plenty hungry.
“Good evening, St. Patricks.”
“Hello, I'd like to make a reservation to come down there. My name is-“
“You don't need to make a reservation, Son. Our doors are always open.”
“Father?”
“Yes. Open Mass is at 5 p.m. tonight.”
“Father? Daddy? I haven't talked to you in years! You asshole! When I see you tonight, I'm gonna kick your ass for leaving me and Mom in Cuba. Fidel Castro and all his guards had his way with us! I was three, Dad, three years old!”
I hang up. Now I'm not only hungry, but angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm hungry. I'm like the Hulk of food or something like that, although I'm not green and I'm not fat. Actually, I am fat. But you can't tell that by reading my words, unless you read what I just wrote.
I go down to the church lookin' for some trouble. I'm ready to kick that guy on the telephone's ass. When I get there though, there's like a thousand other people there. That's way too many witnesses. I don't want to look suspicious, so I sit down in the back.
After this guy rambles on for forever about Kane (Undertaker's brother) and how he's abel to do something or another, and everyone breaks out in random chants and songs, the Priest guy calls us up for the main course. No appetizers? That's unheard of. I'm already on the fence about this place. Although, let me say, the main course might as well have been an appetizer, it was so little and left me wanting more. The priest gives everyone one measly cracker and a drink of wine. Have you ever heard of anything that crazy? What kind of full-service restaurant is this? Fuck the world.
I'm not planning on leaving a tip. But then the priest passes a basket around and everyone is throwing money in it. I reluctantly throw a hundred-dollar bill (nobody around me can break it and people around me started freaking out when I tried grabbing a hundred dollars in 1's and 5's from the basket) in and then hold back tears as I pass it to the person next to me. That thing was overflowing with cash, it was tempting to just pocket the basket. Nobody would know. Plus, how do they deserve all those tips? I can't remember the last time a waiter came to my ‘pew' during this ordeal. The ironic thing is they call it a ‘service.'
As for the meal itself, it was fucking fantastic. A sensuous overload of my palette. The cracker was nice and salty, a little dry, but the wine cured that with a liquidy explosion of deliciousness.
I made a trip to a couple of these other churches. There are a lot of them around, it must be trendy or some shit.
St. Bartholomew's: This shithole also served just a cracker and a sip of wine. Whoopdy-fucking-doo. Gonna have to do a lot more than that to get me to come back. Why all these repeat customers for what's essentially a big cocktease?
Community Church of NY: Delicious. The cracker was covered with buffalo sauce (I brought some from home). I got some weird looks, but hey, if these assholes aren't gonna give me options, I'm gonna service myself. Not like that. I didn't mean service myself in the nasty way. There was absolutely no pun intended.
Church of the Most Holy Crucifix: A culinary revolution. The wine got me churched as shit (I hit on some nuns and then puked on a statue of Jesus while I was on stage being an Altar Man). The cracker was sen-fuckin'-sational. Is that a word? It had a taste of pineapple, a pinch of pepper, a dash of sauerkraut, a hint of spinach and onions, and a touch of Jesus.
Labels: Catholocism, in character, religion