Saturday 11 June 2011

The Restaurant at the End of the Internet

Fed up without being well fed? Credit crunch stopping you munch? Having a rest from restaurants, or just spent six hours researching baby kangaroos online and forgot to eat?

Here it is, The Restaurant at the End of the Internet! The virtual experience of good food and pleasant surroundings. Own imaginative input required.




The decor is varied mix of the tacky, the twee and the downright bizarre. The ceiling is made of pornographic pictures: naked women, parts of men. The walls are filled with prints of Marilyn Monroe and videos of Katy Perry squirting whipped cream from her breasts. If you look to the bottom of your menu, you can see that same whipped cream is available with dessert.

First though, it's time for hors d'oeuvres. Colourful mush in puff pastry. It's impossible to tell what is in them, even after eating.

Try the asparagus and mushroom in a light butter sauce. Careful not to spill on the deep pile carpet; it's a bright white with primary colour sparsely patterned in.




Main course is this delightful pasta dish. Stephen Fry is writing about it on twitter as we munch. He isn't giving it a good review, because the waiter made a joke about it not being fryed.


What are the couple at the next table having? Looks like champ, with tofu there beside it and carrot sticks stuck in spinach lurking there behind. To each their own. Get all sorts out here at the Restaurant at the End of the Internet.
And for dessert? Brownie and ice cream. Whipped cream was all gone.

All that's left is the bill. Ah, but you don't pay for stuff from the internet. Just give money to the service providers. The waiters smile, after you've given them your tip, and show you to the door. Out back the chefs are none too happy, but it's a little late, 'cause you're already home safe and sound. In fact, you never left. Feel free to visit again the Restaurant at the End of the Internet. Turnover is high, so they'll never recognise your face. Eat what you like, but careful, you never know what they put in it or where it's been.

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