Cuisine : French
A disgruntled furry reader recently wrote:
Dear Mr. Waggit,
Your choice of restaurants to review is beginning to get a bit, shall we say, long in the claw. To be precise, I weary of these cheeky, avant-garde "bistros" that might appeal to lesser alley cats and common tabbies. I insist that you begin reviewing more rarified establishments for felines of OUR caliber And just who are WE? Well, allow me to introduce my husband, Sir Leviathan Stoolblaster, 34th, sired by the great Mombasa Sparkplug of Cheddar, who in turn was sired by the eminent moth hunter and explorer, Dr. Horatio Wannapee of Crudpick, retired. Moreover, Stoolblaster is renowned in our community for his thankless hours working as treasurer of numerous civic organizations and for his painstaking work with the local Prep H Club. Now please show us the respect that felines of our social level deserve. If not, I shall be forced to cancel my subscription to The Morning Hairball and complain to my 73rd cousin removed, Felinadonna, of your columnist staff, and demand that you be reduced to writing reviews of dog food!
Lady Raticia Stoolblaster
I, Waggit, replied:
Timing is everything, isn't it? I was actually going to review one of the finest and most upscale establishments on the East Coast this week. I could tell you that I've just been too busy clearing a backlog of other reviews, but the truth is, I work for a very cheap newspaper. The Morning Hairball refuses to reimburse restaurant critics for meals at top drawer restaurants. And while I love my job, I just can't afford to lay out the kind of money it takes to walk out of a five-paw beanery without having to wash a LOT of bowls.
Fortunately, Ruffles Murdog (the Morning Hairball's publisher/editor) has delegated the responsibility for setting reimbursement levels to Socratail, who will essentially say "yes" to anything if you tell him that the expense will help solve a riddle of the ages.
So you're in luck today, oh elegant upper crust feline, because last night my restaurant partner, Mama Mothball, and I visited Maison Mousee, and have the following to report.
We were greeted by well-groomed Tuxedo cats who had the good graces to bow and refrain from drooling on Mama Mothball's pink satin booties while escorting her to the table (although I could have sworn that one of the young waitcats stared just a might too long when Mama raised her tail to sit down).
We began with a plate of perfectly trimmed wheat grass cut in the shape of a splayed rodent, topped with a reduced framichi of boggletwinked sewer extract. Within 30 seconds, we'd both regurgitated, and it is to the credit of the restaurant that spittoons were placed at our settings before the first blade of grass came within inches of the table. We were politely asked if we'd like our expelled wheat grass to be flushed or wrapped in soiled laundry for later consumption.
For her entree, Mama ordered fresh ennui of poltergeist simmered for six hours in a reduction of raspberry and tar paper, then smoked with fresh fonds of juniper fountain blue plucked that very morning by a Himalayan sherpa cat. Odors from her potatoes all-rotten wafted across the restaurant, reflecting their three weeks of marination in a gym sock purloined from a human basketball player with size-16 feet.
My meal was no less fabulous - a roulade encreechee dappled with young Yahoovian beetle antennae and simmered in a creole of pluribus unum, maggot baroniquel, and eBay leaves. A delicate array flumoxe du oxnard wrapped in freshly salted slugs surrounded the encreeche, creating an effect that can only be described as visual tour de France reminiscent of watching the undulating and mysterious beauty of the aurora borealis from the top of a very tall scratching pole.
I will stop here, Lady Stoolbonker, because I am kinder than you. You can stop salivating all over your diamond-studded collar. There IS NO Maison Mousee. And if there were, I wouldn't even check out the joint's litterbox cleanliness, let alone review the food. My great grandpappy, Ican Diggit Waggit, founded our restaurant guide on three great guiding principles: 1) good food for good cats; 2) No cat should be a guinea pig; and 3) we go where no other restaurant critic dares to go. And right now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go take a nap, because tonight Mama Mothball and I are dressing down and heading out to The Hard Rat Café, New York's first feline cyber café and rat racing rink. If you want to pull your tail out of your ear and join us, you're welcome to come along and taste some real vittles.
Bon Appetite, Lady Stoolblaster, and don 't eat
anything our household dog wouldn't.
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