Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Ephrata: Stage Four Smorgasbord Report

[Road race report here. Describe self in delusional terms. Describe race in annoyingly detailed first-person manner. Provide excuses for why didn't win. Backhanded compliment to rivals. Flex.]

Now, about dinner.

After the road race several of us determined to dine at a smorgasbord, a word which implies, I gather, a sort of buffet of buffets, an almost spiritual place devoted to mass: the massing of dead animals and delectibles, of people who like to eat, and the massing of flesh upon these same folks.

I mean, fat people at the Smorgasbord have, planet-like, smaller fat people rotating around them; such are the laws of gravity and gluttony.






















The place, I was told, offers a year-round membership, like a country club for maw-stuffers. You can pay a fee, and go anytime and eat as much as you want. There's also a special discount for those who have endured gastric bypass.

Corey drew our attention to a sign asking/telling "Did you know we sell a million donuts a year" without bothering with a question mark. A million donuts is a helluva accomplishment for which the American Association of Cardia Surgeons, the American Floorboard Reinforcement League, and the American Heavy Duty Elastic Wasteband Junta raises its donut and says "salud."






















We entered the sanctuary, which was massive as a sports arena (I'm told it seats 1,200, and it goes without saying that it seats 1,200 large people. By that, I mean smorgasbord-going types. You could probably fit 3,000 of our great-grandparents in there.) We purchased our twenty dollar ticket to arteric constipation. We listened to our matron's detailed elaborations on the 50 bars, grills, dispensaries, and vomitoriums, and swarmed the buffets.

If a cow escaped the butcher in the back, this is what he'd see at the Shady Maple before dinners cut him down and devoured him (artist's recreation):

The video isn't anything amazing; just recognize that it took me 45 seconds of brisk walking just to make it through a small portion of the food.

Thankfully, there was an accordion player there to aid the digestion:


After our serenade, we absconded to the downstairs football-field sized gift shop, in which we discovered what might well be an Amish/Mennonite erotica section, if only we could read Amish. (Opening line, as I imagine it to be: "Ezekiel clutched her hands in his worn, strong hands, hands that could kill a goat--and light her hearts fire--with one touch.")





















[TT report. Again, describe mighty effort, fate's once again cruel hand, perhaps hint at one's own mental weakness which prevented utter domination in the race of meh-truth. F those guys who were faster. Cool guy walk.]

Somewhere in the vicinity of Blue Ball and Intercourse (I do not kid) we witnessed a car collision, and I called 911 for the first time in my life. Lancaster police and ambulence crews arrived and were gracious and efficient. While I gave a witness report, my associates (to my left) stood with their arms crossed and were extremely helpful.





















The crit was in beautiful Ephrata, a great place. Folks came out in numbers, many on bikes themselves. Among these gentlemen were two Trek Madones and a Giant TCR, all equiped with racks.





















Others came out to sell us stuff. One cute young girl shyly asked if I'd like to purchase a pretzel and a glass of lemonade.



















That's her grandmother on the right. "Entrepreneurship," she said triumphantly. "Child labor," I nearly responded, big government, anti-family DC a-hole that I am. I nearly called in the black raincoats to shut 'er down, boys.

But then, watching that little girl make pretzels with a shy smile on her face, her grandmother watching proudly, the mellifluous voice of Joe Jefferson in the background, a glimmer of sunshine pierced my cold, cold heart. "I'll take a pretzel and a glass of lemonade," I said, and the grandmother beamed at me almost like I was Bobby Lea.

It was Bobby Lea, Olympian, who won the whole thing, after all. No matter. He didn't have to race with a horse, seven fowl, 1/6th of a desert bar including an entire shoofly pie and a gallon of Turkey Hill Vanilla (softserve), a pretzel and a lemonade in his gullet.

3 comments:

Titania said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
CGM said...

wow.... that restaurant... I am speechless. I tried really hard to find a thin person in that vid, not sure I accomplished it.

qualia said...

i ate breakfast at shady maple years ago. or rather, tried to eat. i got nauseated by the human feedlot action. most vivid memory: observing a thick juicy sausage burst in the mouth of an obese person at the next table, its fatty juices running down the corners of his mouth. my scrambled eggs and scrapple were, all of a sudden, unappetizing.