Hello Sweethearts! Or should I say Sweet Tarts?
When talking about food, people are always cautioning me not to get too dirty. Use a napkin they tell me, sit up straight, and mind your p&q’s. Let me speak truth to power. Food
is sensual. Dare I say, sexy? Experience the right dish, and it’s a full body experience, comparable only to, well… you know.
I can’t possibly help it if the chicken I’m served just happens to be the most succulent breast that has ever touched these not so virginal lips. If somebody feeds me a cherry, it would be disrespectful not to pop it— in my mouth. I confess an impulse to catcall every food cart I meet. “Yes please, skewer me!”
When we veil our pleasure in secrecy, when we claim we’re just counting our calories without dreaming of a good time, much of the greatness goes tragically unmentioned. Things that matter, oh! so much indeed.
In this world of a million options, risking a new restaurant feels like blind dating. Meeting one without first perusing their profile can be a scary thing. We’ve been let down too many times before.
If only we could speak to someone who’d been there and was willing to describe the experience in all its lurid detail. No paid ratings, no pretentious pomp, just a glimpse of what they really have to offer before we commit to meet.
I’ve scoured the Bali landscape to find the most sumptuous selections. Those rare wonderous unicorns that will pleasure any palate. I’m here to objectify restaurants, and you know that I’ll divulge all their dirty little secrets.
GRUMPY BUTCHER FIXING TO SEDUCE YOU
Backyard BBQ chic, Grumpy Butcher will make you sweat in the passionate embrace of a nighttime Bali heatwave.
Grumpy Butcher is that metro sexual, New York edgy dude who cultivates his image down to the five-o’clock shadow, don’t- care-‘cept-I-care-a-lot scruff, on his oh-so- chiseled chinigan. There’s electronic dance on speaker, the lights are hanging low. No attempt is made to mute the mumbling ‘I am super popular’ backnoise.
In other words, I mistake him for the food equivalent of that oft described in print, traditional Bali f-boy. Food from this type will almost certainly be style before substance, 100%.
I can admit when I’m wrong. Yes, this boy is trendy, but Grumpy Butcher lays down the juice. Switch out those palm trees he’s got lining the lawn for Magnolias or Live Oaks, and we’d have ourselves a good old southern cookout spot with an industrial modern twist.
He’s comfortable in the big city hustle, but the boy stays true to his roots. He still drives a beat up pick- up truck and he ain’t afraid to own it. Grumpy Butcher had me eating out his hand the second he served me up them peel and eat shrimp. Look! he even brought back my latent Southern drawl.
My background hails from the American South, straight and proper. I know good brisket when it melts across my wooden cutting-board plate, y’all. Far from hating you for the pint of butter you threw in those mashed potatoes, I’m dancing on the tables, salivating, yelling for more. I am oh!, oh!, OH! so down for all the fixin’s. I can vouch for the slaw as that perfect coupling with the marbled brisket festivities. Mayo based, naturally, let’s not make mama cry by suggesting otherwise.
So after all this wordeling, I hope you’ll understand me if I finish up our line-dance, and just tell you nice and slow– The BBQ is awesome. Pavlova is a cloudy dream. The steak, my love, is frikin’ prime. I moaned and begged all evening and ended with a satisfied smile. Let Grumpy Butcher claim he’s city all he wants too– Thank God he’s a country boy.
If you’re more city bred or just feelin’ classy, go for the tenderloin. That aged, grassfed goodness I won’t forget and, rest assured, I ain’t never gonna regret going for it. But when all is said and done, you are here for The Grumpy Butcher’s carefully honed BBQ pedigree. It’s an artform. If you haven’t dipped into the culture proper, you can still taste the result through places like this one, spread out across the whole wide world. Eating at this restaurant, I bathed and basked in down-home ‘oh’s’.
