I'd like to report a rape.
On Thursday, June 28, 2007, I walked into a fairly upscale steakhouse/ "New American Cuisine" joint and ordered a thin crusted, mushroom and caramelized onion pizza as an appetizer to split with Mr. Scoop while we waited for our entrees. A delicious looking piece of crispy flatbread, studded with a variety of wild mushrooms and draped in candy-like onions, arrived promptly to the table. Cheese bubbled voluptuously out from under the toppings. Tiny green flecks of chives danced across the surface of the pie. It was beautiful. I wanted it. Badly. Eagerly, I reached in to gently detach a slice from the round and bring it home to the plate. But the pizza had other plans for me. It played upon my hunger, my weakness.
I experienced an olfactory cornholing, the likes of which I did not think was possible.
The culprit? Truffle oil.
Oh sure, you think "Truffles? Aren't those supposed to be an expensive, delicious delicacy?" To which I reply: Yeah and they also use pigs and dogs to find them out in the forest. You know what my dog used to bring home to me? Well, I can't actually tell you because of the lawsuit, but some things should just stay buried. Other things aren't really the dessicated hand of your next door neighbor's elderly aunt who has mysteriously been "on vacation" in the old country in such a way that it seemed suspiciously tied to - I've said too much. And, anyway, it wasn't a dead person's hand. It just looked and smelled that way. Really. Call your lawyers off, Mr. Burdett.
This smelled worse.
Damn it. The smell of that pizza violated my nose. My sense of decency. My mind. If you asked me to point on the doll to demonstrate where it touched me, I'd punch you in the face. Those dolls never have exposed sinus cavities you can easily point to. That's just a cruel joke.
And the smell has haunted me ever since. Driving alone in the car, it creeps in. I worry that a wayward package of hamburger has been forgotten and left to rot in the trunk but, no, it's just post traumatic shock syndrome. I'd try to drink to block out the memory, but the only booze in the house right now is an earthy red wine that, sadly, has fungal notes in among the pepper and tobacco ones.
The bastard is stalking me.