After a delightful dinner recently in NY with two of my most adorable bestest friends, one of them suggested, nay insisted, that we go to Pinkberry. Pinkberry, so I was told, is the elixir of the gods in the form of frozen yogurt, a treat Los Angelenos will happily pay a $60 parking fine to acquire. Its pull is like that of an opiate, apparently, and on both coasts the stores are crowded from open to close.
Now I never really jumped on the TCBY wagon, back in the day. My philosophy was always that if the calories were much the same as Dairy Queen, why bother? And it should be noted that I frankly most enjoy yogurt in the form of tzatziki sauce on a piping hot gyro, and even then on the side. So while my companions, gentlemen of class, distinction, and in my experience, profoundly good taste, waxed poetic about the delights we were about the enjoy, I was somewhat skeptical. But I had also been skeptical about Rice to Riches, a rice pudding store, which has haunted my dreams ever since I first ate of their bounty, so I wanted to give it a chance.
The line was out the door. We waited 30 minutes surrounded by an endless parade of girls in peasant skirts and flip flops, and young men in well-fitting jeans and ironic shirts. Not being 1) hungry or B) as aforementioned, a big fan of fro yo, I opted out but promised to taste my friend's. The yogurt comes in but two flavors, regular and green tea, and can be topped with fruit, cereal, or the like. My friend chose regular with coconut and chocolate chips, which endeared him to me even more than the fact that we had ordered the exact same thing at dinner.
And for the record, it tasted like a Mounds bar.
Dipped in ass.
Not theoretical ass.
(And before the ass fans pipe in, I am referring to something more in the lines of day old ass, if one takes my meaning.)
Now, I have been known, in my time, to consume some fairly unsavory things, including, but not limited to, live termites, barium, and White Castle Chicken Rings. I'm not a candidate for Fear Factor, but I'm no shrinking violet.
But this stuff is reminiscent of a frozen combination of wallpaper paste, anti-fungal foot cream and come. With toppings.
I don't care if Jessica Simpson once bathed in the stuff, or if every stylemaker thinks that it is the best thing since Ben and Jerry's, someone has to stand up and say "Give me ice cream, or give me death, but for God's Sake keep the freaking Pinkberry away from me!"
And today, that brave soul, she is me.
I wish I could say the same about the Pringles. At some point I will have to ask a shrink about the out of town Pringles thing. I do not have a Pringles at home thing. It is probably one of only six food items that does not call out to me in the middle of my life and beg me to consume in quantities that would make my poor trainer cry. I can walk by a tube of Pringles without a wistful glance, with nary a salivary response. (I cannot say the same of Cheetos.)
I can be offered an open can and gladly wave them away. I have never really understood their appeal, since they seem to be made out of Potato Buds, those weird flakes of my youth that bore little resemblance to actual potato.
Put me in a hotel room with a stocked mini-bar and what sings to me? The wee little bottles of booze promising a quick trip to sleep? The peanut M&Ms, or Vitamin M as my mom calls them, with their salty sweet crunchy melty goodness? The decadent cans of cashews or macadamia nuts or icy cold Coke?
Despite what my parents might tell you, I can resist pretty much anything in a mini bar**.
Except Pringles. They become like crack. I lay in the blinding blue light of an impossibly bright clock radio that I know will awake me at precisely 5:42 am regardless of what I have done to it, and they call out to me. I sit and read, and they whisper salty nothings in my ear. They are like the Tell Tale Snack, and their siren call, which I assume no one else can hear, is maddening.
I have no idea what it is. A deep craving that only hits in hotel rooms. And god help me if not only is there a can of Pringles, but it is the full size. Even I can try to justify the individual serving size, there is no actual food in it, but if I skip breakfast, and don't order the mac n cheese fritters at lunch, I can bounce back. But SIX SERVINGS? I'd have to fast all day and then have a colonic.
Damn you out-of-town Pringles.
If someone would just require that all Pringles in hotel mini-bars be made in Pinkberry flavor, I'd be all set.
**the great mini-bar incident of 1986 lives in infamy, and I promise to share with the class at a later date....