Food: Monica’s Clam Loaf

Shit yeah, homos and heteros! Chris Derricks in the motherfucking house!! Been a while since I pumped a review into this frigid bitch. Let’s do this shit! Ladies, better buckle on a towel, because you’re about to dampen your redeeming parts!

I have that effect on women.

All right, let’s get into it. Boulder, Colorado isn’t especially known for its seafood, being landlocked as shit. When you think of Colorado cuisine, you probably think of goat casserole or snow cones or whatever. I don’t know. I’ve only been there once, and I was drunk and incarcerated for 90% of it.

It was about two in the afternoon and I was staggering around downtown Boulder, still squinting in the sunlight. I was on the phone with the big wigs at The Double Thumb trying to procure some hasty bail funds for my six-man “Chris Derricks Food Review Crew.” Yo, so as a side note let me just say that Boulder is damn lucky I review food and not whole cities. Apparently a group of grown men can’t be out on the street with bitches and a bouncy castle in this backwards excuse for a society. Travesty of justice, man.

Anyway, my conversation was going nowhere. Apparently legal was stuck between disbelief that I was the only one of my crew let out of jail (for twenty four hours of good behavior, yo!) and insistence that I am the only one of my crew technically employed by them, and thus the only one they would post bail for. Finally, I had had my share of bureaucratic run-around and hung up in frustration.

“If only I could find some decent fucking food in this MISERABLE SHIT HOLE,” I shouted, apparently out loud. Between the disapproving stares, a blonde guy in a parka approached me.

“You’re Chris Derricks, aren’t you?” He asked. “The food critic?”

“‘COURSE I’M CHRIS DERRICKS!” I yelled, refusing to adjust my volume to conversational levels.

He flinched and stepped back a bit. “You should go to Monica’s Diner,” He said. “My brother’s family runs it. They’ve got really good food. You could give them a good word, it will be really great for them.”

“YEAH, MAYBE I’LL DO THAT,” I continued yelling.

“…Thanks,” he said, backing away.

“THANK YOU FOR THE RECOMMENDATION, SIR! I AM CERTAIN IT WILL LIVE UP TO ALL THE HYPE!”

He was walking away now, throwing a couple of concerned looks back over his shoulder. I tried to call The Double Thumb headquarters again, but it went to voicemail after the first ring. I left an angry, ranting few minutes on the answering machine and then plopped down in the snow and pouted for a while. Then I stood up and decided to get some damn food, with or without my crew. And what the hell, why not try the stupid diner?

I got momentarily pissed off again when I realized that I hadn’t asked that guy for directions, but then I remembered that this is the goddamn future and I can look up anything on the internet. Two minutes later I was sitting in Monica’s Diner watching a chick jerk off an ostrich on my cell phone.

My reaction exactly.

The diner was quaint as balls. Small with a ‘50s throwback feel, and pleasantly furnished. It felt like everything a diner should be. I looked around and didn’t see any other patrons at the tables. Perhaps this place really did need a glowing review as bad as that douchebag said it did. We’d have to see. Hopefully for them their food was good, ‘cause I don’t give points for feeling sorry for people.

A waitress approached me with a menu and coffee. Petite thing, with strawberry blonde hair, glasses, and a walk that got mini Chris up and awake more than the ostrich chick did, which is really saying something. She greeted me with a smile and a list of specials and overall seemed really enthusiastic about her job.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You must be Monica.”

“I am!” she said, bright and happy. “And… you look familiar.”

“Well I sure hope so! I’m Chris Derricks!”

Of course she knew that name, and so she wanted to know what brought me here and whatnot. To make a long story short, she sat across from me in the booth and we got to talking. It turned out that Monica was a tight ass chick. She told me about how she had always wanted to run a restaurant and that Boulder was the perfect place for her and her family and that the diner was doing okay but struggling financially and a bunch of other stuff that I forgot. Then I talked about me and how I’m Chris Derricks and how that’s awesome. We seemed to be totally hitting it off. Then after a long while she seemed to suddenly realize that I was here as a customer.

“Oh my God,” she said, jumping up from the table. “I haven’t even taken your order! I got distracted talking and just completely forgot! I’m so sorry!”

I smiled charmingly. “Hey, not a big deal little lady! I don’t regret a minute of it!”

She smiled and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Aw, you’re too nice,” she said. And then she bit her bottom lip and I knew it was game time. Chris Derricks don’t miss a signal, yo!

I looked down at the menu and pretended to think about what I wanted. “All right, so let’s see here then. Hmmm. You know, I think I’ll have…” I looked her square in the eyes and huskily said, “Your clam loaf.”

“I don’t believe that’s on the menu,” she said. Then she gasped. “Oh! Oh, you mean…”

She looked at me. I looked at her.

And then we were having sex on the table. Hot, passionate, sticky table sex. From there we moved to the next table down, then to most of the other tables in the diner, then into the kitchen, then onto the register counter, then back to the kitchen again.

As we laid sweaty and entwined in between the deep fryer and the sink, I looked around and said, “You know… I’m pretty sure this is a health code violation.”

“Are you gonna tell on me?” she asked in a sultry voice, grinding against my pork cannon.

I laughed, “Ha! I think I just might!” I reached over and grabbed my phone off the counter. I put it up to my ear. “Hello, health inspector? Yeah, I’m here at Monica’s Diner and there’s people having sex in the kitchen!”

“Oh, yeah, tell them what a dirty, dirty health code violation I’m being!” she said, clearly getting into it.

“It’s totally gross!” I said. “They’re getting it all over the food!”

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around me. “Tell them how negligent management is!”

“I’ve never seen such blatant disregard for regulation in my entire career as a world famous food critic!” I said, bracing myself against the prep table for leverage. We were getting close.

“Oh yes, it’s so filthy!” she said, panting.

“This place should be closed down immediately, inspector!”

“Oh God… yes!” she moaned.

I threw my head back, shouted, “This is going to attract rats for sure!” and it tipped us over the edge.

“UUUUUUNGNNNGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!”

“I’M CHRIS DERRICKS!!!”

Exactly.

Afterwards we lay partially in the sink, exhausted. She rolled her head onto my shoulder and looked up at me. “You…you were…” she said.

“No baby, you were incredible!” I said, patting her on the head. “That seriously was a health violation though.”

She chuckled softly, nuzzling up to me more. Suddenly, we heard the doors of the diner open. She jumped up in a panic.

“Oh God, I’ve got a restaurant to run!” she said.

“Relax baby,” I said reassuringly. “It’s probably just the health inspectors.”

“Hey, that’s not funny, okay? What if it–”

And then the doors to the kitchen burst open and an army of dudes in suits poured in. They froze. Monica froze. I lit up a cigarette.

“Yeah see,” I said. “It’s just the health inspectors.”

There was a long silence. One of the guys vomited, probably from the smell (there was a lot of it). Then they went to work, snapping pictures and taking down evidence. Monica turned to me, her face red with rage.

“You actually called the health inspector?!” She shouted, scrambling to put her clothes on.

“Well yeah, it was a clear violation of regulation–”

“I thought your were just saying that to spice up the sex!”

“I was! Didn’t it make it hotter?”

She flailed her arms wildly, spluttering. “So…so all of what you said.. Oh my God, all of what I said!!”

“Yeah, we could hear all of that,” one of the guys said. He winked and gave me a thumbs up behind her back. My man!

“How?!” she screeched at me. “How could you do this to me?!”

I held up my hands. “Bitch please, I ain’t no hypocrite. If I see a health code violation, I’m gonna report it.”

She couldn’t even speak. Her mouth just worked up and down as the guys in suits grabbed her by the arm and led her away to health jail or something. I got up, got dressed, high-fived the guys for their service, and then went on my way.

I called The Double Thumb and got myself a flight home. I left my crew to work out their own damn legal matters, I ain’t their mom. I never really checked back in to see what became of Monica’s Diner, but what I gather from the death threats in my inbox is that they couldn’t afford the health fine and had to shut down the diner. And it may have been demolished, too. I don’t really remember.

Look, I don’t feel bad. You do the crime, you do the time. That’s why it rhymes. Health code regulations are there for a reason. Can you imagine if every restaurant you ate at had people fucking on top of your food? That would be disgusting! The public deserves to know about stuff like this, and I see it as my role to help facilitate that. As far as my role in it, yeah, I definitely had half of the sex, but I was honest about it, wasn’t I? I fess up when I do something wrong. If I got caught fucking in my own restaurant, then yeah, I’d deserve to be shut down too. But in this case it wasn’t my restaurant, so I’m not the one who did anything wrong. I’m home free, dawg, both morally and financially!

All in all, I think it worked out for the best. I got mad laid, my crew ended up serving their hundred hours of community service, and the town of Boulder learned a valuable lesson about cleanliness. Everybody wins!

Verdict:

I’m Chris Derricks!

 

Image credits: 1, 2, 3, 4