One of us had his first taste of muhammara, a nutty pink paste of walnuts and charred bell peppers, on a date with a gorgeous lady friend. The other one of us tried muhammara for the first time just two hours later while eating the remnants from that date out of a grease-stained Styrofoam container. We don't know whose experience was better.
A predictable bet
I had this drinking buddy, Aaron, back in Kansas City. We’d get totally smashed, wake up hungover and then gorge on Chinese food. We must have eaten at every Chinese place on both sides of the Missouri River. After 20 or so Mandarin/Hunan/Cantonese binges, it occurred to us that it didn’t matter where we went; the food always tasted the same. Aaron put forth that some sort of subterranean go-kart network existed deep beneath the city, ferrying deep-fried and over-sauced Asian treats from a single source to every Chinese restaurant in town.
Nursing It Back
Little Sir Dan, sat with his hands, aloft over keyboard with a frown. Along came his boss, and with a crumpled note he did toss, asking “Hey, we doing a Chowtown?!”