This weekend, we long-suffering residents of Anchorage were finally rewarded with two beautiful sunny days. It was a great moment for being outside in the yard and enjoying the 58 degree weather (chilly by southern Californian standards but quite blissfully balmy for an Anchorage spring day).
Inspired by the decent-looking weather, my friends and I decided to hold a Crab Night. We've had a number of crab nights this year in response to somebody's realization this winter that everybody loves crab, yet nobody buys crab for himself. Somewhere deep inside all of us is a small little person who thinks he does not deserve crab unless he is inviting guests or putting on a fancy spread to celebrate a special occasion. It is a sad statement of low self-esteem... especially in a state where we have such delicious indigenous wild crab all around us.
You've probably seen these Alaskan beauties before -- long spindly crustaceans with legs which seem to go on forever, available in either the Red King or Golden King variety. I once tried to conduct a very scientific experiment to determine which is better but after they got mixed up on my plate, I had to abort my quest for knowledge. Generally speaking, the Golden King is more affordable -- whether it is due to an inferior flavor or due to its spiny shells which may cause injury (or at least certainly materially slow down crab-eating), I do not know. If I weren't so crazy about crab, I could remain level-headed enough to conduct another experiment.
I did have some apprehension about our first Crab Night; like others, I did not think I was worth crab. As a kid, the family ate crab to celebrate birthdays or when the supermarket was having an unbelievable sale. At no point would anybody in my family buy crab alone and go off into a dark corner by yourself to eat crab just for the sake of having it. So for our first crab night, it took a great deal of determination to buy a bag of these luscious crustaceans, just for me and no one else.
Despite my trepidation, the first Crab Night was a smashing success. It ended up being a ladies-only affair, a group of women huddled on the kitchen floor, with crab and happiness dripping from our chins.
Sucking the rich flesh out of the shells with reckless abandon, I felt a great sense of inner peace.
The success of Crab Night One spawned a series of other crab nights, the best of which occurred this year on Valentine's Day. In the past, Valentine's Day had been about little more than the unfortunate proliferation of pink junk, overpriced bouquets, and cheap and unwanted milk chocolates. This year, however, the ladies and I decided that We Were Worth Crab.
I realized then that my problem with V-Day past was not that I had been spending the "holiday" alone or with imperfect men, but rather, I had not been spending them with Crab.
You see, nothing says I LOVE YOU like the Gift Of Crab To Yourself.
From now on, rain, sleet, or shine, man or no man, I am having crab on Valentine's Day! You're worth it! You're worth crab!
(not to be confused with You're Worth Crabs... nobody is worth crabs.)
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
You Know It's Spring When You're Eating Rudolph!
Some might think that living in the one long beautiful sunny day that is California might make its residents completely oblivious to the changing of seasons. If anything, though, my years spent in the sunny land have left me more heightened to seasonal details. Be it a brilliant crimson fall or a budding spring abloom with magnolias and fertility so rich you can taste it in the mud - the seasons keep life dynamic and pose excellent opportunities for renaissance.
In Anchorage, there are a few clear signs of that Spring is finally here:
In Anchorage, there are a few clear signs of that Spring is finally here:
- The Park Strip starts to melt, which unfortunately unhides The Poop of One Hundred Dogs. These are the dogs who frequently made their mark in the park during our many-monthed winter.
- Everyone's yard starts to melt, magically revealing The Poop of Many Moose who may have crunched away at your most expensive bushes and fruit trees.
- Slow, dim-witted mosquitoes begin to appear. As someone who was born with the pheremone that drives these buggers wild, I can't say I am fond of this sign of spring. (Right now, the mosquitoes float slowly as if drunk, but even in this relatively harmless state, I see them only has Harbingers of Doom.)
- Wild geese are afoot everywhere. With them, they bring their own poop, but it's fresh spring poop that seems to act as a fertilizer to help green up the Park Strip and other currently brown spaces.
- And finally, the reindeer dog stands pop back up in downtown.
Today, I took advantage of #5 and had my first reindeer dog of the season. My decision to do so today was no coincidence. First of all, we finally got a bona fide sunny day. Second, there are only a handful of days before May. Why should this matter, you might ask?
The downtown Anchorage area is a tourist drag, lined with shops selling the kitchiest souvenirs you can think of. (While all souvenirs by definition are kitchy, this state is predisposed to hawking what might be considered exceptionally bizarre down south, such as chocolates in the shape of moose poop.) A sure mark that tourist season is warming up is the sudden proliferation of reindeer dog stands.
The reindeer dog itself isn't really as exotic as tourists might think. It tastes much like any other kind of delicious sausage; it doesn't come with antlers or anything weird like that. But for whatever reason, it seems to give tourists a lot of satisfaction to chow down on Rudolph. My suspicion is that running a reindeer dog stand in downtown Anchorage is a very lucrative business.
Like all small businesses based on shacks and stands, a lot of the reindeer dog establishments use sex to sell the goods. It's not uncommon to find a pretty lady flipping your dogs. But the locals, and by that I mean the subset of Anchorage residents who work right in downtown (and by that I could probably further winnow the pool down to young lawyers who work downtown), they seem to favor M.A.'s Gourmet Hot Dogs.
M.A. was my first and has been my only reindeer dog guy, unless you count that one giant package I bought at Costco for a camping trip (which I don't). He was introduced to me by another young downtown Anchorage lawyer, and I've been going there ever since. M.A. himself does not appear to use sex to sell his dogs. Don't get me wrong; he's a decent-looking man, but I think he wears a fanny pack which leads me to believe he is not using his body to sell his wares. The protocol at MA is to know what you want and be ready to order when you get to the front of the line. At noon, when the line winds around the Federal Building where he has set up shop, a failure to do this may incur some wrath or at least certainly a few dirty looks from more seasoned customers.
I think M.A.'s stand was recently, in the last two years, featured on TV - either PBS or the Food Network or both - and this newfound fame was no doubt responsible for the rather ridiculous price hike we saw last season. The standard reindeer went up at least one dollar, and when you're talking hot dogs, that's a material increase. I stopped ordering "the Special" (which includes chips and soda) and elect instead to devote my funds purely to reindeer. M.A. carries some other varieties of dogs - I remember the summer he started doing this and how excited he was about the expansion - but trust me, stick with the classic Rudolph.
So why do I choose M.A. over the other sexy hot dog vendors? Since I am not a man, I am immune to the wiles of M.A.'s competition. But I see other men buying high-priced dogs from M.A., so what's the draw?
Well, the devil is in the details.
M.A. sautes his onions in Coke Classic. Not some knock-off soda or RC cola, but the real stuff. No diet. Just the good stuff out of the red can. This isn't just a party trick; the Coke adds sugars and caramelization to the onions. A savvy business man, M.A. maintains a Rolodex of "Frequent Wiener" cards so that his regular customers can earn their way to a free dog. Unfortunately, you have to eat something like twelve dogs, or at least some other highly significant number, before you earn your free sausage. Surprisingly, I've never made this summit. My first year, I got very close by going very often and by treating my tourist out-of-town guests to reindeer dogs. Just when I figured I was just on the brink of getting my free dog, I could not find my card anywhere in the official Frequent Wiener Rolodex.
M.A. explained that if you don't re-activate your Frequent Wiener card in April, when he first restarts his stand, he throws the card away. It's not a mean business tactic - if he didn't, he'd have to start rolling a giant Rolodex instead of his hot dog stand. Needless to say, I was crushed by this business policy. After all of that diligent consumption of reindeer, I had to start over.
So today, April 26, 2007, I knew that I had only moments before I would suffer the same fate again. With the sun out and a friend who never had been to M.A., the stars were aligned.
I'm happy to report that the Rudolph I got today was exquisite. Just perfect. I won't say it was magical because after all, it's a hot dog, but there wasn't anything else I would have asked for with respect to this dog. Most importantly, I am now a re-activated Wiener and am looking forward to many many wieners to come. 
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Rolling With Rolando
For those who live in Anchorage and frequent the Carrs (otherwise known across the country as the Safeway) at 13th and Gambell, you probably already know Rolando. Rolando works at what locals affectionately refer to as the Ghetto Carrs. I think every city has one of these - a grocery store in not-the-best-neighborhood, stocked with a rather meager inventory, and frequented by somewhat questionable clientele. That's Ghetto Carrs - open 24 hours, 7 days a week - a small little space for your most urgent 2am needs.
Ghetto Carrs used to be my neighborhood Carrs. My most memorable trips, before yesterday, included (1) the time I was asked to open the bottle of vanilla extract in my shopping basket in order to verify that somebody had not already drunk it and (2) a 3am drunken stop with an out-of-town guest in search of "peaches 'n' cream." What can I say? Breyer's was on sale that night.
Yesterday, however, when I stopped by to pick up some fruit on the way to a friend's house, I met Rolando. I had heard of Rolando before. Other friends in my neighborhood often spoke of the little man in the Ghetto Carrs produce department - the one who always tries to feed you free fruit. The mythical Ghetto Carrs fruit man was also reputed to be particularly fond of a certain strawberry sauce. Legend has it that it was not unusual for him to run to the back of the store and come back with a piece of fruit dipped in strawberry sauce. I only halfheartedly believed these stories, thinking that such treatment was reserved for the pretty lady customers who for whatever reason found themselves stopping at Ghetto Carrs. I didn't think it would ever happen to me.
But yesterday night, when I reached for the last carton of strawberries on sale, I heard a "psssst."
"Pssssst."
By the salad bar, a somewhat short Hispanic man of medium build was beckoning me and holding a fork skewered into a piece of watermelon.
"You want?"
Had I not previously heard the tales of Ghetto Carrs Fruit Man, I might have started running. But for once, offered a strange piece of fruit by a strange man, I felt completely at home.
"Sure."
I was dubious - we are still scratching at the surface of spring here in Anchorage, and it seemed unlikely that a piece of watermelon would taste very good in April. But to my surprise, it wasn't at all bad. He motioned for me to dispose of my fork in what appeared to be his cart of rotting fruit, the rejected dregs of the day.
I finally picked up my strawberries and as an after-thought, piled on a bunch of asparagus also on sale. No sooner had Fruit Man observed my arms full of produce did he quickly run off, returning with a shopping basket to place my strawberry cartons inside. And then, with the kind of lightning speed exhibited only by supermarket superheroes, I kid you not, he bagged my asparagus.
But our interaction did not cease there.
"Anything else? Want anything else?"
I realized that he did not mean, did I want to buy anything else, but rather, was there any other piece of fruit in Ghetto Carrs that I wanted to eat for free. On top of his cart, he had just placed trays of cut-up fruit from the salad bar, no doubt retiring from service given that it was now already 7pm. He pulled out yet another fork, stabbed a piece of cantaloupe and offered to me. And then it was the honey dew. Out of politeness, I tried to accept no more, but having gone this far, I did not have the willpower to abstain from myself skewering a piece of pineapple. The pineapple was not great, and this was what brought me back to my senses before I traveled too far down this hazy road of freely given fruit.
During this interlude, I spotted Fruit Man's name tag. "Rolando." I was tempted to say, "Rolando, that's a beautiful name," but then remembered that I was not in Ghetto Carrs to start an intimate relationship with the produce section but rather, was on my way to dinner which was probably already waiting for me. So I rubbed my belly, much in the way a Santa Claus might, and said, "Full. I'm full. I've already eaten too much."
Rolando did not buy this explanation. He looked at me in a way that was both shy and skeptical. "You just started. You only ate little."
Of course, I had already eaten far more free fruit at Ghetto Carrs than I ever had in my life. I tried to act like I had other items to buy. He disappeared for a moment behind the mysterious black plastic curtains separating the real world from what I imagined to be some kind of Narnia of magical produce. I speculated that he'd had gone to Narnia to retrieve the famous strawberry sauce I had heard so much about, but in fact, he returned with a whole slice of watermelon which he shoved into my mouth, no questions asked.
Like I said, the watermelon wasn't bad that day. Although somewhat taken aback, I decided that since the watermelon was already in my mouth, there was little left to do but chew.
I did finally manage to get out of Ghetto Carrs that night without eating any more fruit, but I have to admit, I am now intrigued. It is somewhat out of my way, but somehow, the prospect of the strawberry sauce of Narnia has piqued my interest. Stay tuned for more adventures of Produce Man.
Ghetto Carrs used to be my neighborhood Carrs. My most memorable trips, before yesterday, included (1) the time I was asked to open the bottle of vanilla extract in my shopping basket in order to verify that somebody had not already drunk it and (2) a 3am drunken stop with an out-of-town guest in search of "peaches 'n' cream." What can I say? Breyer's was on sale that night.
Yesterday, however, when I stopped by to pick up some fruit on the way to a friend's house, I met Rolando. I had heard of Rolando before. Other friends in my neighborhood often spoke of the little man in the Ghetto Carrs produce department - the one who always tries to feed you free fruit. The mythical Ghetto Carrs fruit man was also reputed to be particularly fond of a certain strawberry sauce. Legend has it that it was not unusual for him to run to the back of the store and come back with a piece of fruit dipped in strawberry sauce. I only halfheartedly believed these stories, thinking that such treatment was reserved for the pretty lady customers who for whatever reason found themselves stopping at Ghetto Carrs. I didn't think it would ever happen to me.
But yesterday night, when I reached for the last carton of strawberries on sale, I heard a "psssst."
"Pssssst."
By the salad bar, a somewhat short Hispanic man of medium build was beckoning me and holding a fork skewered into a piece of watermelon.
"You want?"
Had I not previously heard the tales of Ghetto Carrs Fruit Man, I might have started running. But for once, offered a strange piece of fruit by a strange man, I felt completely at home.
"Sure."
I was dubious - we are still scratching at the surface of spring here in Anchorage, and it seemed unlikely that a piece of watermelon would taste very good in April. But to my surprise, it wasn't at all bad. He motioned for me to dispose of my fork in what appeared to be his cart of rotting fruit, the rejected dregs of the day.
I finally picked up my strawberries and as an after-thought, piled on a bunch of asparagus also on sale. No sooner had Fruit Man observed my arms full of produce did he quickly run off, returning with a shopping basket to place my strawberry cartons inside. And then, with the kind of lightning speed exhibited only by supermarket superheroes, I kid you not, he bagged my asparagus.
But our interaction did not cease there.
"Anything else? Want anything else?"
I realized that he did not mean, did I want to buy anything else, but rather, was there any other piece of fruit in Ghetto Carrs that I wanted to eat for free. On top of his cart, he had just placed trays of cut-up fruit from the salad bar, no doubt retiring from service given that it was now already 7pm. He pulled out yet another fork, stabbed a piece of cantaloupe and offered to me. And then it was the honey dew. Out of politeness, I tried to accept no more, but having gone this far, I did not have the willpower to abstain from myself skewering a piece of pineapple. The pineapple was not great, and this was what brought me back to my senses before I traveled too far down this hazy road of freely given fruit.
During this interlude, I spotted Fruit Man's name tag. "Rolando." I was tempted to say, "Rolando, that's a beautiful name," but then remembered that I was not in Ghetto Carrs to start an intimate relationship with the produce section but rather, was on my way to dinner which was probably already waiting for me. So I rubbed my belly, much in the way a Santa Claus might, and said, "Full. I'm full. I've already eaten too much."
Rolando did not buy this explanation. He looked at me in a way that was both shy and skeptical. "You just started. You only ate little."
Of course, I had already eaten far more free fruit at Ghetto Carrs than I ever had in my life. I tried to act like I had other items to buy. He disappeared for a moment behind the mysterious black plastic curtains separating the real world from what I imagined to be some kind of Narnia of magical produce. I speculated that he'd had gone to Narnia to retrieve the famous strawberry sauce I had heard so much about, but in fact, he returned with a whole slice of watermelon which he shoved into my mouth, no questions asked.
Like I said, the watermelon wasn't bad that day. Although somewhat taken aback, I decided that since the watermelon was already in my mouth, there was little left to do but chew.
I did finally manage to get out of Ghetto Carrs that night without eating any more fruit, but I have to admit, I am now intrigued. It is somewhat out of my way, but somehow, the prospect of the strawberry sauce of Narnia has piqued my interest. Stay tuned for more adventures of Produce Man.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Leave My Dude Alone.
Ah... there's nothing like an untimely movie review! Casino Royale was released in November of last year, with second run theatres playing it months ago, and no doubt the film has long since hit DVD, maybe no longer even crowding the queues of Netflix customers. It has been months even since I've seen the movie and first started chewing this cud of criticism.
But alas, opinions are timeless.
The press and fans had been all abuzz about the new James Bond, giving me high hopes that we were finally embarking on a new 007 era, finally free of that corny Pierce Brosnan who to my dismay, during his reign managed to woo many first-fans not even gametes when I saw my first Bond flick. No doubt all the talk had set within me high expectations for a great Renaissance, perhaps something worthy of the Cold War?
Not quite. While we've definitely left Remington Steel behind, this was not the return to the James Bond whom I fell in love with so many years ago.
Let's start with the basics. Bond does NOT ever say, "I love you." Doing so will immediately result in DEATH (as older fans will recall was the fate of his wife Teresa Bond, whose matrimonial bliss and lifespan did not extend beyond the ending credits of On Her Majesty's Secret Service). Bond may have muttered some crap about "love" a couple of times in the Brosnan era, but that was reason to stop watching the movies. 007 also does not give the pink slip to God, Country, and the Queen, and again, certainly not for love. And he is not a robot. The Daniel Craig version is entirely binary without any nuances reflecting the spectrum in between extremes. As the more classic Bonds have shown us, it is in fact possible to:
But alas, opinions are timeless.
The press and fans had been all abuzz about the new James Bond, giving me high hopes that we were finally embarking on a new 007 era, finally free of that corny Pierce Brosnan who to my dismay, during his reign managed to woo many first-fans not even gametes when I saw my first Bond flick. No doubt all the talk had set within me high expectations for a great Renaissance, perhaps something worthy of the Cold War?
Not quite. While we've definitely left Remington Steel behind, this was not the return to the James Bond whom I fell in love with so many years ago.
Let's start with the basics. Bond does NOT ever say, "I love you." Doing so will immediately result in DEATH (as older fans will recall was the fate of his wife Teresa Bond, whose matrimonial bliss and lifespan did not extend beyond the ending credits of On Her Majesty's Secret Service). Bond may have muttered some crap about "love" a couple of times in the Brosnan era, but that was reason to stop watching the movies. 007 also does not give the pink slip to God, Country, and the Queen, and again, certainly not for love. And he is not a robot. The Daniel Craig version is entirely binary without any nuances reflecting the spectrum in between extremes. As the more classic Bonds have shown us, it is in fact possible to:
- kill for the love of your country,
- "love" women for the moment,
- and be human at the same time.
And if God forbid, Bond finds himself mired in a moral struggle, he keeps it private - he certainly doesn't talk about it. Eww.
In Casino Royale, as soon as this Bond left the Her Majesty's Service in order to spend the rest of Forever with Random Bond Girl, predictably, I leaned over to my companion and whispered, "She's either EVIL or GOING TO DIE." Or both, I suppose.
And I guess I am the only one who thinks that the real James Bond can be clever and witty without being corny and sappy. It frustrates me when people think Bond is inherently corny. As one friend has described me, I belong to that "radical faction" of Bond fans that really likes Roger Moore. And no, I do not think Roger Moore is corny at all. (He has a good sense of humor, let's just say.) I tried recently to look up on the Internet statistics to verify whether I truly stand in the minority of the fan base, but the search was inconclusive. In my opinion, the truly unsufferably corny James Bond came with Pierce Brosnan, and I wish he took that Bond with him. (I'll note here that I was actually fond of Brosnan's Reminington Steel work, but Remington is no James.)
Puckery Daniel Craig did a good job with what he had, but I found the script generally lacking. Only the dialogue between Bond and Bond Girl on the train ride was mildly interesting. They even gave poor Oscar-winning Judi Dench lame lines. Over the years, whoever has been in charge has soured Bond movies into regular action flicks, a genre which has recently suffered from an over-proliferation of testosterone-indulgent, drawn-out, seemingly never-ending violence. (See giant-insect killing scene in King Kong; Orcs fighting in second Lord of the Rings movie. Yes, I know all of you men are still drooling over these cites.) That men enjoy watching minute after minute, scene after scene, of boring arbitrary repetitive boring action suitable for only fast-forwarding leads me to believe I will never ever be compatible with the opposite sex.
And to top it off, Casino Royale was a remarkably unsexy movie. Bond movies are supposed to be super sexy! What happened to the not-so-subtly-implied sexual escapades worthy of only indecent international spies? The slow, slinky unzip of a sequined gown that used to make my five-year-old heart turn all a-flutter???
In Daniel Craig's defense, he is undoubtedly the most athletic Bond ever and could beat Bambi in any contest of leaps and bounds. And certainly even the dear and eternally smooth Roger Moore would not want to compare pecs with Mr. Craig. Despite my opinion that the movie's plot was generally unsexy, the word HOTNESS did inexplicably and randomly HOTNESS cross my mind a number of HOTNESS times during the film. HOTNESS HOTNESS HOTNESS (Ladies, you know exactly when.)
In the end, I question the constant effort to reinvent 007, to bring him into "our time." If I want to think about "our time," I would not watch a movie about a man who probably packs a helicopter in his attaché on a daily basis. The point is that James Bond is classic and timeless. You want to do a movie about a spy who likes strange girlie concoctions with curly lemon peels, well, invent a new dude.
Hands his shaken martinis, and leave my dear 007 alone.
All in all, Casino Royale was certainly not a waste of the three dollars I spent at the second-run theatre. And there is the business of HOTNESS HOTNESS probably being worth a few extra nickels, too.
And to top it off, Casino Royale was a remarkably unsexy movie. Bond movies are supposed to be super sexy! What happened to the not-so-subtly-implied sexual escapades worthy of only indecent international spies? The slow, slinky unzip of a sequined gown that used to make my five-year-old heart turn all a-flutter???
In Daniel Craig's defense, he is undoubtedly the most athletic Bond ever and could beat Bambi in any contest of leaps and bounds. And certainly even the dear and eternally smooth Roger Moore would not want to compare pecs with Mr. Craig. Despite my opinion that the movie's plot was generally unsexy, the word HOTNESS did inexplicably and randomly HOTNESS cross my mind a number of HOTNESS times during the film. HOTNESS HOTNESS HOTNESS (Ladies, you know exactly when.)
In the end, I question the constant effort to reinvent 007, to bring him into "our time." If I want to think about "our time," I would not watch a movie about a man who probably packs a helicopter in his attaché on a daily basis. The point is that James Bond is classic and timeless. You want to do a movie about a spy who likes strange girlie concoctions with curly lemon peels, well, invent a new dude.
Hands his shaken martinis, and leave my dear 007 alone.
All in all, Casino Royale was certainly not a waste of the three dollars I spent at the second-run theatre. And there is the business of HOTNESS HOTNESS probably being worth a few extra nickels, too.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Bring Back The Five-For-Five!!!!!
I may be skirting the fine line separating the Blogworthy from the Better Left Unsaid, but this is a one-woman-one-stomach campaign to bring back the Arby's FIVE-FOR-FIVE deal. For those of you who sadly missed the promotion, it permitted a hungry customer to buy five items of food (your choice of Arby's Melt, Curly Fries, Drink, Cherry or Apple turnover) for five dollars... and ninety-five cents. That's the annoying fine print. It's not really "five-for-five" but rather, "FIVE-FOR-FIVE-NINETY-FIVE." Arby's had the good sense to know that "five-for-five-ninety-five" would not be a good slogan, so they elected instead to defraud their customers with "five-for-five."
Ninety-five cents and fraud aside, I am mostly upset that the five-for-five is gone. I am even more upset that it has been replaced by a disturbing TWO FOR FOUR FISH SANDWICHES. Not only has the price per item of food doubled overnight, but the previous array of diverse options has now dwindled to a single fried fish sandwich, not very promising from an establishment that specializes in roast beef (and even this specialty is suspect). The extent of your choice is to get two of these unappetizing sandwiches.
What Arby's doesn't know, and perhaps this is why they pulled the FIVE-FOR-FIVE, is the cessation of this promo is really cramping my style. The five-for-five used to be my default bet. "I bet you a five-for-five that you're wrong!" was a win-win situation. If I lost, I had to buy a friend a five-for-five, which said friend would usually graciously split with me. If I won, the friend footed the bill. But in all circumstances, everybody gets to eat five-for-five. Everybody wins!
"I bet you a two-for-four-fish-sandwich!" however, does not have the same ring. Nor is it likely to invite anyone to wager against me. With the departure of the five-for-five, I've ceased being a betting woman, rolling with Vegas odds. Life in the fast lane cannot be had with fish sandwiches in your convertible. Nobody wins!
So to anyone else similarly grieving the loss of the five-for-five, please contact your local Arby's and bring the five-for-five back. And at all costs, don't be suckered into the two-for-four fish.
Ninety-five cents and fraud aside, I am mostly upset that the five-for-five is gone. I am even more upset that it has been replaced by a disturbing TWO FOR FOUR FISH SANDWICHES. Not only has the price per item of food doubled overnight, but the previous array of diverse options has now dwindled to a single fried fish sandwich, not very promising from an establishment that specializes in roast beef (and even this specialty is suspect). The extent of your choice is to get two of these unappetizing sandwiches.
What Arby's doesn't know, and perhaps this is why they pulled the FIVE-FOR-FIVE, is the cessation of this promo is really cramping my style. The five-for-five used to be my default bet. "I bet you a five-for-five that you're wrong!" was a win-win situation. If I lost, I had to buy a friend a five-for-five, which said friend would usually graciously split with me. If I won, the friend footed the bill. But in all circumstances, everybody gets to eat five-for-five. Everybody wins!
"I bet you a two-for-four-fish-sandwich!" however, does not have the same ring. Nor is it likely to invite anyone to wager against me. With the departure of the five-for-five, I've ceased being a betting woman, rolling with Vegas odds. Life in the fast lane cannot be had with fish sandwiches in your convertible. Nobody wins!
So to anyone else similarly grieving the loss of the five-for-five, please contact your local Arby's and bring the five-for-five back. And at all costs, don't be suckered into the two-for-four fish.
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