YOU DON’T KNOW TERROR!
SAPPORO
152 WEST 49TH STREET
NEW YORK NY 10019
I dread Sundays.
For those of us who work on Broadway, every Saturday (double shows) feels like a Sunday and every Sunday (double shows again, lucky us!) feels like the eighth day of the week. Our vision starts to get hazy and footsteps seem to drag. It’s like being trapped at the limbo which always feels closer to hell than heaven.
All I could think about last Sunday was a giant bowl of piping hot savory noodle soup. It was the only thing that could prevent me from harming someone.
It didn’t feel like I was asking too much until during the rare split seconds of consciousness, I realized that I was in Midtown Manhattan. WHERE THE *&^% AM I GOING TO FIND A DECENT BOWL OF NOODLE SOUP, I ASK THE GOD OF COOKERY?!
For my one hour dinner break, the only two choices I had in the neighborhood were “Teriyaki Boy” and “Sapporo”. Last time I had Teriyaki Boy, it took me an ENTIRE WEEK to recover my palate. I vowed to never have plastic food again. So I picked “Sapporo”.
It was a bad idea.
The small place seemed to be run entirely by Asian exchange students under the age of 18. I settled down at the counter and saw the Latin cook behind it trying to kill a fly with the spatula GREAT. Welcome to the suicide club. The exchange student, I mean, my waiter played with his PSP loudly beside me. I closed my eyes, and pointed at one number on the menu at random.
SAPPORO SPECIAL RAMEN
It indeed arrived in a gianormous bowl. Four slices of roasted pork lay next to a sad bundle of assorted vegetables (spinach, bean sprouts, and corn), and on top of a body of malnutritional ramen. All ingredients were drowned in a pool of dirty yellow lukewarm broth with skeptical ground meat floating on top.
Should I call 911?
Desperation is a very poqwerful thing and the devil must have taken over. I bit into it without hesitation.
Everything tasted exactly how it looked. Salty, greasy, and tasteless. I felt homesick. I thought about the readily available, assorted delicious noodle soups I had back in Taiwan. I wanted my mom. In an attempt to fill up the void, I ate faster. I managed to chow down half of the bowl. It was absolutely horrible.
After paying $8.15 (yes, AMERICAN DOLLARS!) for the piece of shit I just had. I felt cheated and hurt.
DOES ANYONE REMEMBER THE MOVIE “TAMPOO” ANYMORE? HAD PEOPLE STOPPED CARING ABOUT WHAT THEY ATE?
Then I looked up and saw the giant Cup Noodle sign glinting in the middle of Times Square and realized where I was, once again.
152 WEST 49TH STREET
NEW YORK NY 10019
I dread Sundays.
For those of us who work on Broadway, every Saturday (double shows) feels like a Sunday and every Sunday (double shows again, lucky us!) feels like the eighth day of the week. Our vision starts to get hazy and footsteps seem to drag. It’s like being trapped at the limbo which always feels closer to hell than heaven.
All I could think about last Sunday was a giant bowl of piping hot savory noodle soup. It was the only thing that could prevent me from harming someone.
It didn’t feel like I was asking too much until during the rare split seconds of consciousness, I realized that I was in Midtown Manhattan. WHERE THE *&^% AM I GOING TO FIND A DECENT BOWL OF NOODLE SOUP, I ASK THE GOD OF COOKERY?!
For my one hour dinner break, the only two choices I had in the neighborhood were “Teriyaki Boy” and “Sapporo”. Last time I had Teriyaki Boy, it took me an ENTIRE WEEK to recover my palate. I vowed to never have plastic food again. So I picked “Sapporo”.
It was a bad idea.
The small place seemed to be run entirely by Asian exchange students under the age of 18. I settled down at the counter and saw the Latin cook behind it trying to kill a fly with the spatula GREAT. Welcome to the suicide club. The exchange student, I mean, my waiter played with his PSP loudly beside me. I closed my eyes, and pointed at one number on the menu at random.
SAPPORO SPECIAL RAMEN
It indeed arrived in a gianormous bowl. Four slices of roasted pork lay next to a sad bundle of assorted vegetables (spinach, bean sprouts, and corn), and on top of a body of malnutritional ramen. All ingredients were drowned in a pool of dirty yellow lukewarm broth with skeptical ground meat floating on top.
Should I call 911?
Desperation is a very poqwerful thing and the devil must have taken over. I bit into it without hesitation.
Everything tasted exactly how it looked. Salty, greasy, and tasteless. I felt homesick. I thought about the readily available, assorted delicious noodle soups I had back in Taiwan. I wanted my mom. In an attempt to fill up the void, I ate faster. I managed to chow down half of the bowl. It was absolutely horrible.
After paying $8.15 (yes, AMERICAN DOLLARS!) for the piece of shit I just had. I felt cheated and hurt.
DOES ANYONE REMEMBER THE MOVIE “TAMPOO” ANYMORE? HAD PEOPLE STOPPED CARING ABOUT WHAT THEY ATE?
Then I looked up and saw the giant Cup Noodle sign glinting in the middle of Times Square and realized where I was, once again.
posted by Gourmet Gal @ 11:47 AM
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