When man -- be he warrior, or noble, or Travis from Parsippany -- doth require a satisfactory evening of entertainment and repast, that man knoweth only of a lone destination: the great bustling castle scholars have thus dubbed Medieval Times. And I, your scribe, shall present herein a document of said castle’s vittles and grog, so that peoples far and broad can knoweth whether their coinage will thus be distributed in proper fashion.
I set forth for the burg of Lyndhurst, in the lordship of Jersey of New, along with my compatriot: Karen of Palmer, scribe for The Table That Many Good Fellows Taste At. Our Zip Chariot was fast and strong, and propelled us towards our destination, which emerged like a towering mountain from the darkness of dawn -- a truly impressive fortification indeed, with a tower so high as to provide rival to Amanda of Bynes.
But the question of true import was as yet unanswered: would the sustenance be inspiring of awe? To the table we alight: continue to forge ahead through this electronic parchment for deliberations engaging in zero degree of partiality, from both Karen of Palmer and myself, your gracious scribe of provisions.
The Flagon of Grog
Ben of Robinson: As dusk descended and the entertainment proceeded, bar wenches skittered about the keep to offer all manner of libation -- from that beloved juice made of malted barley and hops, to the sweet nectar of the grape, to small glasses of “Fire, in the Form of Ball.” We decided to imbibe the first.
Karen of Palmer: The grog was sufficient, but I shall cherish my Medieval Times goblet, which was lovingly painted with scenes from the momentous evening, and shall forever remind me to "become Medieval upon that behind" whenever I sip from its sturdy plastic lip.
The Loaf of Garlic
Ben of Robinson: Despite the loaf being not terribly substantial, the notable pungency of that most powerful of cloves was enough to knock three knights of low composure directly off their steeds.
Karen of Palmer: Maidens from the Land of Lakes must have churned the butter that graced this airy slice of Italianate loaf. This proved to be the most pleasant and satisfying dish of the night, with the powder of garlic most present in every bite.
The Stew of the Tomato Branch
Ben of Robinson: I cannot speak with full certainty without a journey to the scullery, but this stew indeed appeared to be created by House Campbell, and proffered for general purchase at markets of comestibles in many lands.
Karen of Palmer: ‘Twas the Dark Ages, indeed. The lukewarm soup hath been watered down in order to stretch it -- there was to be an additional joust that evening, with many more cheering peasants to feed.
The Tuber of Starch
Ben of Robinson: Were a man of sport preparing for an impending run of impressive distance or perhaps a hurl of javelin, he would prove jubilant to consume a tuber of such impressive size and weight. I am not a man of sport; the tuber remained far too massive and without proper time amongst the flames for my liking.
Karen of Palmer: I must concur: this undercooked tuber should have been placed in the chamber pot and cast out the window with the rest of the sewage.
The Leg of Fowl
Ben of Robinson: Ahhh, the dish that hath borne one hundred thousand grokes. The fowl was tender as a handmaiden’s touch, and was resplendent of fine spices surely transported from the Kingdom of India. The noble Sir Sanders of Kentucky himself would swell with admiration.
Karen of Palmer: Methinks this fowl was not allowed to roam free upon green ranges, or proffered the feed which hath been labeled certifiably organic. Its ample bosom suggests it cometh from House Perdue, where it hath been injected with a wizardly potion.
The Rib of Boar
Ben of Robinson: While not quite a calamity of damning proportions, the rib of boar showed no desire to challenge the leg of fowl for the feast’s crown. It displayed an invasive covering of sauce of uncertain origin, and ultimately proved similar to the dubious products found in all-one-can-masticate suppers served for very few coins at lesser halls of monetary speculation.
Karen of Palmer: The few bites of sweet, slicked meat served on the bone invoked the words of Chris of Rock in a masterful performance called upon by Keenan Ivory of Wayans: “One rib. I sure am hungry.”
The Towel of Heat
Ben of Robinson: What rousing sorcery must have been concocted to implant such a mighty bit of fire into a fiber-cloth!! My digits, they were purged of any remaining sinew; my face, it felt as if it were pressed into a cauldron but not conflagrated one bit. Most entertaining magic indeed.
Karen of Palmer: What luxury. What finery, to wipe my hands clean with this warmed cloth. ‘Tis a little-known fact that the term “moist towelette” originated amongst the feudal system.
The Turnover Of Apple
Ben of Robinson: How some wizard implanted the rosy fruit of the vine into such an elegant home of carbohydrates is beyond even me. The crust was ample, but the fruit perhaps had spent too many hours in the rays of the great fireball above.
Karen of Palmer: Bits of apple cooked down in a thick jelly spewed forth from the mouth of a thick, dry crust of pastry. I would much rather steer my chariot to the driveth-thru opening of the King of Burger for one of his warm, flaky handheld pies.
The Pastry of Chocolate
Ben of Robinson: Despite observing many other joust supporters being served this long-beloved post-supper confection, we were offered none, even though I had informed the guardsmen that it was indeed Karen of Palmer’s day of birth.
Karen of Palmer: After our knight’s disappointing finish and the meal that hath filled my belly, I searched high and low for a shitteth to give about the chocolate cake not making its way to our table on the tray of a serving wench, but alas, could not find one.