April the 5th, Year of Our Lord Who Clearly Abandoned Us That Day.
It began, as most epic quests do, with unfounded optimism and a full tank of petrol. We’d been road-tripping like giddy squirrels—Goblin Valley, Hanksville, Capitol Reef—just good honest dirt, rocks, and the occasional windblown granola bar. And then, as the sun plunged into the abyss and the icy breath of night crawled over us…
A light! A beacon! A Curry Pizza establishment!
And lo, it bore the holy sigil of the Divine Guy Fieri, Patron Saint of Flavortown™ and wielder of the mighty sauce ladle. Diner, Drive-In, or Dive—who could say? But it bore the same greasy imprimatur.
We were famished. We were excited. We were… about to be betrayed.
Act I: The Arrival
We parked our chariot (That that day identified as a Subaru Outback, 2012, noble steed of the American West) and galloped inside, dreams of exotic flavours dancing in our minds.
But then… the cold.
Not metaphorical cold. No, no. This was the kind of cold usually reserved for morgues, polar bear enclosures, and failed marriages. We huddled at our table like penguins in parkas, the air conditioning unit apparently dialled to “Cryogenic”.
Act II: The Waiting Game
Time passed. A lot of it. Somewhere in the distance, an hour expired.
Then, with the dramatic flourish of a limp handshake, came the pizza.
Then, after a brief intermission and spiritual decline, arrived the curry.
Act III: Culinary Catastrophe
Let us begin with the pizza.
It resembled—how shall we say this diplomatically?—a middle school Home Ec project performed under duress. A frozen crust, topped with what can only be described as “tomato juice squirted in a circle” and crowned with chunks of chicken that likely lived their best life inside a tin can in Nebraska.
The curry? Oh, dear reader, the curry.
Imagine tomato soup. Not a nice one. Not your grandmother’s lovingly stirred bisque. No, this was Dollar Tree Gazpacho with that same tragic chicken bobbing about like sad icebergs of regret.
We took one bite. We pondered the futility of life. We left.
Act IV: The Aftermath
We abandoned everything but a single, shivering slice of pizza, left on the tray as a cautionary tale to future pilgrims.
On a scale from 1 to 10, we gave it a 1.
Why 1?
Because it had a door.
A functioning one.
One we could flee through.
Praise be.
Epilogue: Reflections from the Flavourless Frontier
It’s taken two months to compose this literary regurgitation. Not because we’re slow typists, but because trauma has to marinate.
We ask ourselves now, staring blankly into the distance:
Are any of the Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives actually good?
Or is it a giant televised conspiracy of dives?
Only time, and gastrointestinal fortitude, will tell.
Until then, dear readers, beware the glowing lights in the desert. Not all who glitter are good. Some serve curry pizza.
And some…
shouldn’t.
