The Fast & The Furious

I remember the days when little Naz looked at the clock at the top of the wall in longing, hoping for the time where the idiotic bell would ring and I could dash out as fast as my little manjan-looking legs could carry me, to join up with my mom after my kindergarten class in Marine Parade. While the motherly embrace was pleasant enough, what really made my heart race was the fact that the walk to the car would invariably lead us past... McDonald's.

I've always been a rather avid fast-food junkie. These prepubescent experiences seemed only to fuel the urge to drop by the conveniently-located outlets of the golden arches as well as KFC, when I progressed to secondary school. Later, I tried Burger King, and found their cheeseburgers pleasantly enjoyable. I would go on to blame my love for french fries for my less-than-herculean physique.

One of the few fast-food chains I had never enjoyed, however, was Long John Silver's. Firstly, I hate pirates. Peter Pan and Captain Hook? Lame. Jack Sparrow? Lame. Popeye (OK, sailor, but whatever)? Lame. And spinach is lame. I've probably only visited their outlets and actually purchased something other than a soft drink only twice in my entire life, before a few days ago.

Again, the fates brought me and my rather empty gut (I had made the conscious decision to not take a slice or two of pizza at home) to Marine Parade. With a rather irritable someone at my side, I, being the paragon of chivalry that I am, allowed her to select where we would sate our appetites. She pointed at the blue and yellow motif.

I did my best to keep my derision hidden from view, but I succeeded only as much as I would when trying to iron. Ever the perceptive cynic, the lovable girlfriend offered to allow me the choice instead, but again, my gentlemanly ways won the day over, and we walked into the joint. Well, it has no walls, and no doors, so we walked... to it.

So. Fish and chicken, eh? The regular combo's looked as appealing as CSE 101 and so I elected instead to go with the "grilled" choices, which seemed, for all intents and purposes, the lesser of two evils. After several frustrating moments, the lone girl at the counter finally turned to us to listen to our orders.

Before I continue, I will have to say that the labelling of "girl" to this "girl" is only one of convenience, for while it was quite apparent that she was of the female sex, and thus possessed such furnishings like mammary glands and a nose, she looked more like a cross between E.T. and a dayak. Watching us with eyes dulled far beyond any semblance of intelligent thought, she nodded like a drunk pirate (lame) wench and turned to yell, like a pirate, to the invisible person working in the kitchen. The unseen ninja chef yelled back, and the dayak-alien mumbled that the grills were not available anymore.

I was aghast. Heartbroken. Lost for words. Disappointed. Annoyed. Hungry.

I picked the Chicken Combo instead, seeing as how it was cheaper than the fish, which was what Little Miss Makeover ordered. Under the scrutiny of the strange life-form behind the counter, we collected our trays and our "food" and proceeded to take our (uncomfortable) seats. If the heat and humidity of the place was supposed to simulate a kind of hell, what was on the trays definitely lived up to it.

The chicken tasted like wet cardboard, left to dry on the ground a day before. It had a comparable texture as well, something even a mangy dog might turn its nose away from. The fish "fillets" were slightly more bearable, but still fell far short of the sub-standard norms that one might expct from the nearby supermarket, where frozen chunks of processed seafood waited patiently for poor untrained cooks to attempt to turn them into gourmet meals. The fries? Well, if potatoes could commit suicide, they would have been turned into fries like those. They tasted of despair and made my taste buds cry out for sweet merciful death.

The best thing about the meal was the chili sauce, in those little white and green packets.

After deciding against hacking my tongue off with the flimsy plastic spoon, I stood up from the rickety table, taking my darling by the hand, and whisked her away from the wretched place. In all my life, I don't think I have ever left so many french fries untouched. Even the freaky escargot the other day was less of a chore. With the hated place barely out of my questionable sight, I began to realise that the only thing I had missed by not being a regular patron of Long John was a severe case of food-poisoning.

I will make a pact today. Between myself and all of you. A plea, a deal, an agreement, a promise. If you ever, ever, eeeeeeever see me walking into or even close to another Long John Silver's outlet, feel sorry for me, for it would be the clearest sign yet that I wish to end my life. You may wish to stop me, advise me, warn me of the obvious dangers. But no. I have suffered through the experience of a "meal" from this "restaurant", and barely survived. If I go again, it would mean I would be seeking a slow, painful end.

I just hope the fries in heaven are good.