Perhaps it is right that I make clear that this expenditure was founded on curiosity, not desire; neither being a vegan, nor having interest in becoming a part of their society, I was hesitant to even make an appearance in their restaurant. Curiosity, it seems, killed the cat but perhaps did not eat it.
The atmosphere was cheery, the inside painted green with metallic silver accents. Light music was playing.
A bearded man greeted us at the door, wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt under a black apron. No apron could be black enough to obscure that special sight of crime-fighting turtles. It was he who led us to our table.
The diner was surprisingly crowded, it seemed to me, for a vegan restaurant on a Friday night, but the quality of the food is such that it was truly merited.
My friend, zealous to test the restaurant’s capacity to construct food outside the mammalian realm, ordered the nachos appetizer.
Our waitress, Ashley, promptly brought us a plate of chips and salsa and then, upon realizing her mistake, brought nachos.
I feel no resentment toward Ashley but, in the interest of truth, feel that if any part of this is worth reading, this incident ought to be pointed out.
It was only after enjoying several of the nachos that I remembered that in fact, the cheese was not actually cheese.
Surely this fake cheese, so delicious, would be denounced by Socrates for being at least a third removed imitation of the true form of dairy; nothing but a treacherous image, like Magritte’s pipe.
Despite my dutiful University of Dallas-inspired pseudo-philosophical misgivings, the cheese seemed like a fine little lie to me, and it tasted like the truth.
Perhaps if all lies were so compelling we wouldn’t have a need for truth at all.
Sunken in confusion and doubt, not knowing what was right anymore, we pushed forth. My companion, Kat, got a breakfast quesadilla and a chai latte.
“It’s so smooth,” Kat said after sipping the chai, which was real.
The quesadilla consisted of a brown tortilla probably made out of wheat. The inside was a neon yellow “tofu scramble” that was clearly not the egg of which it was perhaps hoping to at least evoke warm memories.
The dish was not bad, and if one were seeking a warm tortilla quesadilla without eggs it was quite nice.
I ordered a burger made out of soy protein. The burger tasted fine; perhaps it was too bloodless for those who prefer rare meat but not overdone.
The only egregious aspect to the entire affair was what they called bacon, which tasted and looked more like bread soaked in brisket grease.
After dinner we had their ice-cream called “i-scream,” which tasted to my untrained tongue just like regular ice-cream.
The dessert was cathartic.
Finally, willingly, Lethe-wards I sank into the world of falsity, of unknowing, of secret soy and beans.
Stomachs laden with mystery, we slipped back into the hot Dallas night, free to do something other than eat or think about eating.