[Foggy Notions, otherwise known as The Bog, has become our current leader on the burger meter, scoring an impressive 112 points (out of a possible 120). Leading the way were perfect scores in Juiciness, Sides, Meat Type, Handability, As Ordered, and Taste. We were going to give it a 9 for taste, just to give room for improvability, but that seemed such a remote possibility we are going to allow for the ten. As for Sides, companion had fries which were crisp, though companion did allow for some room for even more crispiness, and my own selection of onion rings were perfection, even allowing for the possibility that there could have been a larger quantity. I suppose one could always have more of a good thing, especially with companion's constant pilfering.]
...and now for our more detailed review: readers take note that this pushes the envelope.
Foggy Notion, or The Life and Notable Adventure of our Knight-errant in New York.
In a certain corner of New York, the exact name of which I choose not to recall--but oh yes, in Cambridge, NY, a city whose stature, if it were a person, would stand less than the average height of a green grocer, not that a grocer is necessarily short in stature but certainly, at least in this authors experience, less than that of a tavern owner--there came one evening, for the sun had dipped below the horizon some minutes before, a man of some ingenuity, if by ingenuity one means distracted to the point of lunacy.
It was this man that accompanied me--truly he bade me follow as a squire follows his knight, fully laboring under the weight of spare armor and carrying the saddlebags of sustenance that are necessary on trips far and wide, which knights are generally supposed to perform.
It was after many years of acquaintance with this personage, a man I would dub tranquil and sedate at most times (troublesome at his worst but that was seldom) and a man of some entertainment, not to be undervalued in that quarter, that I became most accustomed to his sometime variant tactics, for he would at times jump up off his seat to further some adventure. This normally would be an imagined jousting or swordplay; often it would be merely acting as governor of some island kingdom. And so, when he took me under his wing on this particular evening, it was not so unusual that I was led to believe that anything untoward would effect itself.
Now in this particular corner of the world there are sometimes occasion to fortify oneself in any of several inns that pockmark these tracts of lands, farmlands mostly, though a stone’s throw from any place you might find yourself standing will hit the broadside of some enterprising sort. Such is the picture of this occupied territory, energetic...yet not overly so.
My friend, after a days labor which left him huffing and puffing so that I thought he might have been taken hold of the consumption--or at least a very common cold--and after I had harangued for quite a long time concerning the unavailability of such foodstuffs that might be called sustaining and fortifying, I say my friend agreed that he too was in such a state of hunger that he might faint dead away if there were not found some ready nourishment at hand.
Just as my friend made use of these words, garbled though they were by much weakness occasioned by his famished state, he and I heard the cry of a thousand giants, or at least that was the thought which occurred within my friend’s addled brain. I do allow that the sound was quite deafening, a full-mouthed roar that Jove himself may have unleashed upon some poor shepherd in an Athenian meadow. But turning my head I spied what indeed was only just nearby, twelve or so bikers wearing skullcaps and black leather suits, and loudly accelerating their motors so that if it had thundered directly above our heads we would not have been made aware of it.
Still, fortune smiled upon us, for the bikes had been driven into the lot of a nearby inn, of the name Foggy Notions. At least to me it seemed an inn, a place of burgers and fries and ale, since within the windows I could see the lights advertising such fare.
Alas, to my friend’s addled mind the establishment was seen as a castle, and the bikers were but knights charging within. He made some mention of siege warfare and waiting thirty days or so till the castle surrenders itself, but as I made plain to him, we did not have one day to wait, much less thirty.
He agreed to charge the castle and take it, making use of my own strong right arm, of course, as well as his; and any and all within would soon be his prisoner. I averred that there still might be found a burger within, if we hurried.
And hurry we did. At the entrance, we were greeted by a maid (my friend thought her a maid, though I tended to the opinion that she was more likely someone’s grandmother) who thankfully did not seem to pay any attention to my friend’s protestations and accusations. When he stated--and quite forthrightly so I must say--that any and all within this castle (for such he still believed despite the barman’s presence and the families taking their leave of dinner, and the several televisions showing what must have been the latest Yankees vs Red Sox encounter), that any and all would be his very own vassals, she merely nodded, saying to him, “I’m thinkin’ I’ll have some of what he just had.”
Though I expected my friend to be joyous at his apparent victory, and the taking of a castle with nary a bruise or scratch, much less the severing of one’s more delicate parts which anyone will tell you is quite possible when attacking castles, is quite a good and fortunate thing. But though Lady Fortune seemed to smile brightly on my friend, he took a deep long sigh and seemed as doleful a knight as any that anyone might have imagined at that particular instant.
“I know what will cheer you up,” I said. “A burger and fries!”
“And ale?”
“And ale as well, of course!”
And our maid, or grandmother, as the case may be, soon brought our order to us, and not a moment too soon, as the Knight of the Doleful Countenance (as so I re-named him) was just about to attack the television set which he mistook for the one eye’d relative of Cyclops.
The burger seemed a potion of the order of the Balsam of Fierbras, which my knight friend explained could cure a man even after being cut in half on the battlefield, as long as the nurse was of sufficient beauty and continually said the Pater Noster while performing her necessary duties as nurse and surgeon. For he quite perked up and I thought even began to make some sense of the place when he looked up, finished chewing his burger, and stated quite emphatically, “I say, this is the best burger I have ever eaten and if that isn’t true then I am not the bravest knight in Christendom!”
I did heartily agree, for my own burger had found its way into my stomach so fast that one might have thought chewing to be optional. And the fries were, it should be noted, quite equal to the burger: crispy and cradled in oil--not overmuch--and salted just so that it made one wish for another ale...and there! One readily appeared.
Our blessing should have ended there, with a successful battle and castle taken, and a grandmother rescued to boot, as well a meal to match, but for another bout of madness on the part of my friend, who immediately after quaffing his drink, took umbrage at some leather-cropped biker making unchivalrous comments at the baseball game, which my friend again insisted was Cyclops’ brother-in-law.
I will not make a longer story out of one that already seems an epic even not including the details of the scuffle which ensued...other than to say that there were so many punches thrown (though seldom landed) that even I in my saner moments thought that perhaps Cyclops himself had found his way to come to the aid of his long-lost family member. Tables were tossed, and the air held such a quantity of dust and debris that I thought it opportune to hightail it out of there, and dragging my friend to his feet we somehow did manage to escape. But the Knight of the Doleful Countenance could not just leave the way he had come. A knight, after storming a castle, apparently leaves with some amount of booty, at least a horse that might match his own grace and stalwartness. And that is how we found ourselves riding off, he on a black steed, whose braided mane was whipped by the wind, and myself, riding a rather pink-ish bike that must have been that of a lady friend of the gentleman our good knight had punched in the face just as we made our exit.
| Juiciness | 10 |
| Size Matters | 10 |
| Sides | 8 |
| Price | 9 |
| Char-ability | 9 |
| Meat Type | 10 |
| Hand-ability | 10 |
| As Ordered* | 10 |
| Server Issues | 8 |
| Taste | 10 |
| Ambiance** | 9 |
| Parking Lot*** | 9 |
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