12
HUMOUR
Confessionals If you leave the group chat, I am leaving you for the sharks Written by Kelly Chia Is this a confessional or a reckoning? At this point, I’m not sure. I am a destroyed woman. And it’s because of you. I will RUIN you.
Humour Editor Kelly Chia
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humour@the-peak.ca
Dining with sophistication Townies, Tricks, and Trash Townhouse Compost
Look, I know how I sound. I’m a nice person. At least, I think I am. I always say thank you when I leave the bus, sometimes even when I leave the SkyTrain. But I am not patient. I’m about two inches away from releasing fresh hell, and I will not apologize. And it’s because of you. A bit of background on my dilemma. I admit, this group project wasn’t everything to me, three months ago. I mean, it wasn’t graded strictly, and I thought we were all about sharing the tasks. Then, we had the naive pretense of exchanging contacts via Discord, or WhatsApp. We laughed about taking on group responsibilities and joked about the long syllabus. We had the joy of laughter then. But it is the eve before our presentation. The crux that breaks the ship on which our friendship sailed. I’m not dramatic. I tried to be patient. I believed that you’d do your part when I had seen you in class last weekend. You told me, with a smile on your face, that you’d respond! I sent you a text through your cell number. I waited. I messaged you on Discord. I waited. Five days passed. I accepted the truth. I have been ghosted. You left me asunder in an ocean of Google Slide transitions and the most unhelpful illustrations. Please tell me how I’m supposed to use a vector of a sad boy eating ice cream for our Shakespeare analysis. You make me feel like a sad boy. With no ice cream. Left in my thoughts, I monologued on and on, much like Edgar Allen Poe and the worst group partner. You were supposed to be my partner, and you’ve parted my heart. I am running on three Red Bulls, and I’ve just had a revelation. In fact, I’d call it inspiration. Tomorrow’s presentation will not only have no trace of your work in it, it will condemn you, in the most academic sense. You see, I have decided to do a fun mad-lib. We know the plot of Othello so well now, I’m sure the class will be excited at my creative decision to use your name in place of Iago. You are the betrayer! Tomorrow, you will receive my fair deliverance. Everyone will hear it, the professor, the TA, and the class that could really care less. What use is the high road in a 100-level Shakespeare elective?! . . . Or, I could go back to my chicken noodle soup, and never look at a Messenger group chat, ever again.
APPETIZER
Spinach and mushroom soup ENTRÉE
Prawns sautéd with cherry tomatoes DESSERT
Yogurt cheesecake WINE
Water
Reginald Trashpánda III, Acclaimed Food Critic
Simply disappointing. Those were the first words that came to mind as I exited the Townhouse Compost this sad evening. This week I had the ”pleasure” of Chef Lotor’s exciting cuisine. He claimed to be a freelance chef hired by SFU . . . Suspicious, but I was optimistic. He’d sent out an invite made specially for me, Reginald the III, of course. He stated this was yet to be another tasty treat only meant for the likes of my noble self. I beg to differ. Unfortunately, this restaurant and its . . . delights have left my tongue, dare I say, displeased. I will not be seeing Chef Lotor anytime soon, that’s for certain. Off the bat, the appetizer, spinach and mushroom soup, was disappointing leaf water. All I could taste was the blandness of it all. No salt, creaminess, nor any garnish. I think at some point, the soap had layers of unpalatable awfulness of what was justified as “soup.” If you are familiar with homemade broth, the layers of fat and the liquid is what creates the taste of umami. What was in my bowl was simply not that. Far from it, in fact. The mushroom was raw and the spinach had withered into non-existence. More like a garnish than a feature! Stirred together, I saw the clear reflection of my regret in those murky waters. I nearly sobbed into my little paws. The downside of the whole appetizer is that this is supposed to be a simple tummy-warming dish, but at some point I felt it claw back up to my throat. I insisted on skipping the entrée, worried that my night would suddenly become unpleasant from the indulgences of this regrettable meal. Chef Lotor, oblivious to my apparent disgust, brought this horror forth. How can one think to cook this meal and ration the least amount of prawns one can ever think of is beyond me. The whole point of prawns sautéed with cherry tomatoes is the prawns! The tomatoes overpowered the whole meal and it lacked zest and aroma. The spinach in this meal was, well, present. Come to think of it, the amount of spinach in this meal could have been used sufficiently in the spinach and mushroom soup. The dessert was the only part of the meal that was able to calmly stay in my belly. I had no intention of finishing the whole fiasco, but the proportions of the ingredients and its warmth made the experience somewhat less vile. It was sufficiently filled with dairy, and I admit a small weakness for cheese. I sadly chewed on the soggy graham crust while thinking over my sordid meal. For the many reasons I can list on for eternity, this meal did not deserve any assortment of wine, so I drank water to quench the filth stuck in the back of my throat threatening a torture that would proceed the night. Was this restaurant worth my time? No. I have never been more disappointed in Chef Lotor’s recommendation, he has started to lose his dazzle. Worse, I suspect he unintentionally tried to poison me. I, Reginald Trashpánda III, your honorable and favorable food critic. I am deeply immersed in the love for cuisines but this was not anywhere close to that. I now must get on that Yelping app to warn my fellow readers of this monstrous chef! Written by Nercya Kalino
