There is always something about comfort food that stirs more than the palate. Today was one of those dog-days for me where I was thinking that I was too tired to eat. I was even feeling that perhaps, any fond thinking of food was misplaced at that moment.
If you knew me dear reader, you would be gasping and wondering if I was having a crisis of unheard of proportions. Because quite frankly, the worst problems may limit my enthusiasm and romance with food, but it has never snuffed my fond regard of it. At any time. Not even for a few seconds.
The fact that people were painting the town red before the long weekend sharply contrasted with my mood, but it was also a boon. Because after passing by first and second food options with their full parking slots and waiting lists, me and mine were somehow led to the deep-fried chicken king of restaurants. Max’s.
And with that first bite, lo and behold, my tongue and my spirits felt a rebirth, the likes of which Anthony Bourdain has been waxing poetic about for years. There is no standard by which to compare, no sufficient words to describe it.
The spell woven by comfort food is High Magic.
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Photo courtesy of Max’s Restaurant.
xtine
