My friends, it has been almost 2 years since my last dispatch in the “culinary rape” series. There have been many moments in this period of time when I have been tempted to place pen to pad and record a gastro-intestinal tragedy, but have decided not to. You see, I only reserve this treatment for the most brutal mouth and taste bud molesting experiences.

 Last night, I had what was undeniably the worst meal in my entire life.

 Last night, I was raped in a culinary manner at “Good Four Seasons” Chinese restaurant in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

 This rape capped off one of the most epic searches for sustenance in the history of mankind. A Christmas eve journey passing by thousands of closed eateries in a city that was more reminiscent of T.S. Eliot’s wasteland than the capital of the “isle of enchantment.”

 The evening started off with a simple premise: eat. And it ended with an even simpler one: die. My brother Daniel and I left my apartment at approximately 8:30 PM. Accompanied by thoughts of cranberry sauce waterfalls & turkey boats floating in a river of gravy, we began our quest.

 It was very quickly apparent that we needed to abandon our notions of floating on any sort of boat down a river filled with any sort of sauce. The streets were abandoned – presents were being wrapped, children tucked into bed, their eyes eager with anticipation. Demoted to the ranks of fast food, we simply accepted this fate and shifted our search to more mundane cuisine.

 

above: san juan, christmas eve.

For over an hour, we drove the streets of San Juan in search of anything – mcdonalds, burger king, taco bell – even a rogue hardee’s, perhaps. But came up empty-handed. No dice. Then, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, we saw the solution to all of our problems: 

Denny’s.

 Now, on most occasions, Denny’s isn’t the solution to any sort of problem. Just the opposite, in fact.  But this night was different. As we pulled up, we could see movement – I felt as though I had been trekking across the south pole and had stumbled across a warm cabin in the night. As we entered the establishment, though, I saw something horrible. The entire dining room was filled to capacity. Apparently we weren’t the only lost souls wandering the city, looking for a meal.

 Now, most people wouldn’t mind waiting for 10 minutes, given the circumstances. Given that they had just been driving for almost 2 hours and were several minutes away from collapsing due to starvation. But I did. Friends, I do not know why I made this decision, but I made it: I made the decision to leave Denny’s, in search of a higher caliber of cuisine.

This sparked a fight between my brother and I. You see Daniel saw the logic that I did not see. Denny’s would be, at worst, mediocre. At this point it made more sense to end our search right then and there and give in to a stack of pancakes or a burger and fries. But I had other plans. While walking to the door, I had thought of an obvious Christmas eve choice: Chinese food.

We arrived at the “Good Four Seasons” restaurant at approximately 11:00PM. I handed my keys to the valet, and approached the host stand. Naturally the fact that I parked my vehicle with a valet was promising – after all, it could be argued that the caliber of food at an establishment with a valet is often higher than one without that service. It appeared that we were experiencing a Christmas miracle, of sorts. Our long quest for food was over – we were now ready to reap the fruits of our laborious search.

We were seated and immediately began examining our menu’s, in search of the perfect item to fill our Christmas void. It should be noted that my brother is a writer for a major new york food review, and would more than likely describe himself as an aficionado of rare and strange eats. Naturally his eyes lit up with child-like joy when he spotted a “fugi roll” on the sushi menu. Fugi is a rare type of poisonous blowfish, semi-illegal to harvest in some areas. Unless cooked to perfection, it has the potential to kill. When my brother inquired about this item to our waitress, he was greeted with a mind-boggling answer. There was actually no fugi in the roll – just eel.

This makes very little sense, of course. It is tantamount to offering someone a filet mignon, and serving them up a can of SPAM.

This was the first indication that things were going to go wrong. The emperor indeed had no clothes – because he had disrobed in order to facilitate a culinary rape. 

When the waitress informed him of this problem, my brother immediately threw on the brakes and went into safe mode. He ordered a plate of sesame chicken. I feel as though there were other options on the menu that he was interested in, but he went with the ‘safe’ choice due to a belief that it would never fail him. If only he had known how misguided his train of thought was, he could’ve escaped at that very moment.  

Witnessing the conundrum, I also made the choice to make a b-line towards a safe haven. I decided to order a plate of General Tso’s chicken – I have a longstanding relationship with the general, and up to that point he had never let me down. At his worst, General Tso is flavorless – but not capable of rape. So I thought. 

As far as a beverage choice, I went with a simple one. Coke. While eyeballing the beverage card, though, I noticed something peculiar. The prices were unbelievably inflated. $2 for a can of coke – THREE DOLLARS FOR FRUIT PUNCH? The mixed drinks were certainly not any relief from this financial penetration. My brother made, in retrospect, an un-wise decision. He ordered a Pina Colada. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the appeal – he’s in Puerto Rico, in a tropical environment, relaxing. What arrived, however, was far from what had been anticipated.

moscamaurer: i thought a pina colada would ease the stress of our long, fruitless search for food but the frozen concoction was dark and foamy, like rancid eggnog. Appropriate for the season, perhaps, but on an island where coconuts were everywhere, I was shocked that seemingly none had made their way into my drink. Nor, did it seem, had any rum, despite the fact that I probably could've walked to the Bacardi distillery without breaking a sweat. What's more, the drink tasted like someone had dumped a gallon of sour mix into it. Rarely do I ask a waitress to verify the alcohol content of a mixed drink, but at that moment I was in such desperate need that I did just that.

above: actual view of the elder maurer 3 hours after pina colada ingestion.

The prices of the food were also exponentially higher than any other Chinese eatery I’ve ever seen. I paid upwards of $15 for my choice, and Daniel’s was even higher. We both secretly hoped that the prices were indicative of quality. Perhaps they had flown the finest chefs in directly from china…chefs that in their home country were serving dignitaries, brought in to share their gift with the people of Puerto Rico. Perhaps these chefs were paid so much that the restaurant was faced with only one real option – raise their prices.  

Almost immediately afterwards, our food arrived. Allow me, as always, to break this down. 

First of all, presentation. I am going to avoid my usual verbosity here and just cut to the chase. Danny’s sesame chicken looked like a pile of discolored animal dung, bordered by a ring of thinly sliced lemons and cucumbers. On top of this mountain of culinary tragedy somebody had apparently sprinkled several sesame seeds.

Mine was similar in appearance – the meat was indiscernible from the rest of the ingredients. Miserable clumps of chicken drowning in a sea of terror. Mushrooms, water chestnuts, baby corn, all trying to find something to hold on to in the midst of the raging culinary turmoil.

 The color of the meat was also something of deep concern. After experiencing the foul taste of his meal, the elder Maurer proceeded to convert his mouth into a Chinese car wash, of sorts. He removed all traces of sauce from a chicken piece, in order to assess the situation in a more accurate, objective form. When reached for comment as to the pigment of his meal, Maurer had this to say:

 “it was grey.”

 A simple thought, and obviously disheartening, as chicken should never be grey.

 As each chunk of his meal was lifted from his plate, strands of sauce would dangle – but not in a savory way. The sauce, honestly, looked more like mucous than anything else.

the chefs at good four seasons, arriving in America, 1878

 

the odor of our food was more or less equivalent to this.



surely the waiter feared being sprayed by something along the lines of what is pictured above.

 

Needless to say, neither of us finished our meals. Actually it should be noted that I did not even come close to finishing half of my meal, and my brother even less so. It is a sad day when you throw in the towel on General Tso and his good friend sesame chicken, but that’s precisely what happened. I informed the waitress that we simply wanted the tab and were ready to go. As I waited for her to return with the damage, the valet dropped my keys off at our table. Apparently he was leaving early – it sort of brought things full circle. The promise indicated by the presence of a valet was an empty one. Maybe he didn’t really have to go – maybe he just feared the prospect of getting sprayed with stray vomit. 

When the check arrived, it was no surprise to find the total, which was in excess of 50 dollars. I paid it immediately, and was baffled when I found, in the checkbook, a complimentary keychain. I examined it, expecting to find attached to it a key to a vomitorium. It was as if the Good Four Seasons wanted me to never forget my rape. Little did they know that the keychain was definitely not necessary to assure this fate.  

Readers, we can only hope this never happens again. But I have a feeling I will see you in another 2 years. Until we meet again, friends.