I can tell you all about how everybody from Sue in Reception to Kafe Nasty has been telling me about Malcolm Yards but I won't start that this way, no. I will start by justifying going out to eat in the middle of a pandemic by stating simply, honestly, and frankly, that Kath and I had eaten ourselves out off house and home by Thursday night and, this being Friday night, needed some kind of sustenance, which lead us to Malcolm Yards, a place we kind of meh about from what we'd read.
I could tell you that the whole building looked like the Keflavik Airport Food Court but that bit's just some twenty nineteen nostalgia for me so I won't.
I could tell you that I made fun of the place named Joey Meatballs for being named Joey Meatballs but I won't tell you that. I can tell you that I wanted to hunt down the son of a bitch who gave my old lady lip at Bebe Zeto and knock him on his ass but I won't tell you that. I could tell you that Kafe Nasty raved about Wrecktangle Pizza but I'm not sure he could tell you that.
No, what I'll tell you is that Kath and I got in her car, went up to northeast, found a bugfuck parking situation, and went inside this gigantic hall with a check-in process where I couldn't just use my debit card at the stalls, I had to get a special numbered card with a thing and... It was a whole production. I'll also tell you that it sure was good being in the company of so many vaccinated people who... I'm kidding! There were no mask requirements, nobody checking for vax cards at the door, just a bunch of gold and purple rubes milling about, not looking like they were having a good time by the looks of things and by "things" I mean "faces" and those faces had no masks on them.
"Ah shit," I thought behind my mask, "these fuckers are going to get me killed. Can there possibly be any more embarrassing epitaph than 'He Died Just Trying To Get Some Dinner Then Some Step-Dad From Anoka Breathed On Him'?"
Let's just cut right to the quick here: The fried chicken sandwich from Abang Yoli was calling me and after we did a fly-by on the stalls, Kath decided she wanted one of those. We grabbed a Diet Coke for her and a lemonade for me at the bar where the bartender just gave them to us and said, "It's on me." We thanked him and headed back over to Abang Yoli where, at the last minute, I opted for grilled chicken on my sandwich. We were offered the choice between gochujang and garlic ginger mayo or ginger garlic mayo... Some horseshit that wasn't gochujang. We both got gochujang.
We placed our order and Kath excused herself for a cigarette because it was hella crowded in there, just loud and echo-y and full of people who, for the love of Christ, would. not. stop. breathing.
Me? I went to Del Sur Empanadas for an appetizer - the Caprese empanada and an alfajor, which I think is my new favorite cookie - then joined her outside and waited for the text telling us that the very serious white-coated cooks had finished our order. Then that happened and...
OK, so there was a quiet part of Malcolm Yards and we were able to secure a two-person seat back there near a - and I'm not exaggerating here - seven foot tall motherfucker looking like Smokey from The Big Lebowski. Yeah, the character Walter pulls a gun on but this guy is easily seven feet tall. Somehow, Kath didn't notice him.
SO HOW WAS THE SANDWICH, CHARLIE???
Kath was really into hers, more than I was into mine. We both agreed that the bun was the fluffiest thing since cotton candy and the gochujang was sweet without being too sweet and spicy without being hot. Honestly, I liked my Caprese empanada better, even if I did call it "cap-reese" and the guy at the register was all "ca-pray-zay" which made me all "OK, cocksucker, just ring me up" inside even though I do appreciate the gentle correction. I had a ca-pray-zay empanada or, more accurately, an empanada ca-pray-zay. That "coconut dusted cookie"? That was the alfajor, pronounced - yes, actually - alpha-whore. Don't believe me? Google them shits.
So, I took my old lady out and I had an empathic panda tay-zonday and an alpha whore for an appetizer for my go-Jew-gang chicken sandwich.
I'm just happy she was happy.
We tried going to the Bebe Zeto for a dessert for her - I was still set on another alpha whore - OK, fine, I'll quit writing it that way but it is literally pronounced that way. Alfajor. It's Spanish, that J is an H. Alfajor. Say it out loud. Go ahead, you're alone, you're an adult, nobody can tell you what to do. In fact, it would be racist, even colonialist, to white-wash the name of this traditional Spanish cookie by calling it an alpha-jor. And you know what? I'm joking around here (because it's fun to say "alpha whore") but I'm willing to bet some white person who claims to have black friends has already tried to "de-stigmatize" the name of this fucking cookie. ANYway, we go to Bebe Zeto where I'm prepared to go full Ray Liotta on some degenerate but Kath didn't see the flavor she likes so we left.
And that was pretty much it.
I know you come here for the yuck-'em-ups, I know you're into hearing about food, and I know I've failed on both counts but what can I say? It was a good chicken sandwich, I wish it had had more pickles. I mean if I have to complain about anything it was that they held back on the pickles. I like a pickle.
All told, for two sandwiches, an empanada, and an alpha-whore - OK, I'm done writing it that way, I promise! - we got out of there or less than forty bucks. The prices aren't out of line with the rest of the city at the stalls we visited. We agreed we would return once the place stops being new and busy and I might have a better report to give at that point. As of right now, I can't say give Malcolm Yards your money but I will say to keep an eye on them. I will say Abang Yoli is alright but I liked Del Sur just a tad bit more. Give them a go when you get around to it, no rush.
Comments
Post a Comment