The way-back-machine NY Times waterboarding of Guy Fiero over his Times Square fine diner – though amusing – seemed to me to make about as much sense as putting the thumbscrews to Ronald McDonald over an especially muddy McRib or SMHing Michael Jordan when your Air Jordan’s fail to heighten your vertical leap, Flaming Green Day for making a musical…mmm, scratch that.
Until he materialized in my kitchen, Guy twernt a person, place or thing. I keep telling myself Guy is a brand with a super-sized media footprint. And so far as culinary mascots come and go wasn’t ever about to buy it. Were I to cast G-Fi it’d be as ” that totally cool Young Life minster you can’t believe’s a Christian” and yet the man’s spiky apparition now haunts my fridge.
In hindsight, seems the Gray Lady was just looking after herself – that fickle provincial mistress – after all, Guy had moved in on her turf (Wikipedia FLASH: “Times Square” is named for The NY Times) and his culinary coiffure ruffled said linen draper’s feathers. And though as avian as an anvil, now Guy’s prickling my plumage. I want to forgive and forget slathering His salsa on my cheese crisp (Aren’t alliterations are awesome!?!?) and yet…
Anyway, without indicting Guy “I Can’t Believe He’s Not A Christian” Fiero allow me to instead rock the following mathematical science:
Ragu + 10-speed Schwinn Caliente = Guy Fiero’s Burn Baby Burn 7 Pepper Salsa