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Published: November 29th 2008
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Food Watch
I'll eat your babies. All Aboard the Pimp Train to Porto
After the hell train that was Madrid to Lisbon, we got ourselves a pimp train to Porto, home of the Port wine. Port wine means dessert wine to you beginner wine drinkers. I am now officially considered an intermediate Port wine taster. If you’re now attempting to decifer what an intermediate wine taster would be, I would use this guide:
Drinks Vinegar (Wyatt Culbert)
Ghetto Wine Drinker (Bryan Eyslee, Brendan McNerney)
Just Above Ghetto Wine Drinker (Cory Boyd)
Beginner Wine Drinker (Caitlin McNerney)
Intermediate Wine Drinker (Brian Tatko)
Expert Wine Drinker (Tara Costello, Cheryl Eisenhour)
Stallion Wine Drinker (Becca Pementell)
Grand Wizard Wine Drinker (Thomas and Fay Tatko)
Please note that all wine drank in Chico comes in a box or below $10 bottle and usually has a picture of a rat or kangaroo on it, so regardless of your status, that’s what you’ll drink when there. And you’ll like it or, you’ll end up in the Olivedome basement. Ask Moira, unless you’re tripping balls on mushrooms, the basement is not a fun place to be stuck in.
The Angriest Old Man Alive
The train ride into Porto was
I am
I'll make you famous styling, it had beaches, blue skies and grassy green hills. When we arrived in Porto we came across this massive bridge that towered over the river and most of the city. It was a pretty humbling and impressive site. More amazing is that at some point in history someone had enough balls and vision to build a city here. The city itself again seems like its waist deep in poverty but the people here seem to be happy with life. There were a few exceptions however. On our bus to our hotel an old man got on and became very angry that there were no seats. Upon further realization that he wasn’t the center of the universe either, he just began yelling. This lasted for about two stops before he got off early and continued to yell as the bus pulled away. I think I pissed him off more because he looked at me and yelled in Portuegese but I had no clue what he was saying so I just smiled. He didn’t like that one bit. Never smile at angry old people, it’s like laughing in a cop’s face, you know how it’s going to end. Porto was also
Wine-Os
I'm still a Whiskey man, or boy. the first city we had been in, where we were instructed not to stroll through certain areas of town because of the, “many bads.”
Drinking wine for 2 straight days and having another room with a balcony overlooking the city made me feel like I had culture flowing out of every orifice. I really should be carrying around some form of crown, so when I wake up and inspect my minions in the morning from my balcony I can look as royal I feel.
You Are What You Eat
Porto is dessert capital of Europe or at least it seemed. Breakfast here appeared to have no meat and only sugar, frosting and dough. I can’t live in a world without meat, I treid, it didn’t work out. Vietnam lasted longer than my stint as a vegetarian. An all dessert breakfast for me is about as appealing as sitting through a Ben Affleck directed movie. If I am what I eat, I want to be known as Salty Pork or Tuna King from now on. Or maybe just little Tuna.
The Goldfish Meal
I have this thing I call the Goldfish meal. The goldfish meal is
Map Check
Where the fuck are we? a meal of at least 3 items, that a chef or someone keeps bringing you, that you’d eat until you exploded. By the way, Goldfish don’t eat till they explode, they just keep eating and crap a lot, I know this because Oliver and I fed our goldfish Iago all day once and he didn’t explode. Anyways, we found this hole in the wall café that had thin sliced breaded pork with fried egg on top, salty rice and French fries. It’s something I used to eat as a kid in Germany all the time. Over the course of 1 1/2 days, I ate four helpings. We went back for a 5th, but the place was too packed and we had a train to catch. I felt a kinship with these meals. Like a mother protecting her new puppies As I savored every bite, I also had to eat while on guard. Maybe it was because of the annoying homeless people who play their accordions at the windows of the restaurants and then come in and stand over while you eat with their hand out asking for money and trying to steal my food. Well maybe they weren’t trying to
Bridge to the Same Place
Here you need a bridge to get from Porto, to Porto, to Porto, to Porto and back to Lisbon. steal my food, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. My appetite has not been the same since, all I can consume is candy and orange Fanta. Had Tara let me, I would’ve eaten till I exploded and been happy to die right there.
The last café we ate at, I’m pretty sure our waitress was a vampire. She said she wasn’t from Transylvania, just from the same area, but I think she was lying. I left Porto again with a full tummy of delicious grub, a new found respect for wine, diabetes from the deserts, a fear of daywalking vampire waitresses from Romania and convinced that European public transportation will curse me with the gift of pink eye at least once during this adventure.
With love from Europe, I’ll see you in Barcelona.
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Cory Boyd
non-member comment
Oh, word?
Brian, I love you. Thank you for recognizing the fact that I'm not all the way ghetto. See you real soon!