Much like a burgeoning relationship, the thrill of discovering a new and exciting gravy often happens during the chase. My chase is constant; a hapless journey through a land of brightly-hued postage stamp green fields and sheep that dot the horizon. The main problem I find is the abruptness of which this picturesque landscape ends as you approach a historically industrial town such as Larne. Here, grass turns to concrete, green turns to brown and sheep turn into 200 foot smoke stacks. This is where my son and I found ourselves on a rare day without his mother; in a commercial shopping zone that hosts various mattress outlets, a wicker-based superstore and of course, an Asda. This is where we found the true jewel of Larne - the Blue Chicago Grill.
What the hell is with this country and American-themed restaurants? What I love about these places are the little things about the establishment that are just...off. Some of the signs are slogans or phrases that nobody in North America would EVER say; it's as if aliens have created a construct of a restaurant to make us feel more comfortable - an example is a large neon-text sign that says "Iced-Cold Beverages".
But slight glitches in The Matrix aside, my 15-month-old son and I were here for one thing - DAT GRAVY. Now when you see a chicken gravy on the menu you never know what you're going to get; I've had chicken gravy that was basically brown water, so my son (sensing my skepticism), decided to use his straw to flick his drink everywhere in protest.
The gravy arrived in a metal boat, which I consider a platter more suitable for prison inmates, but I looked past that when I realized that LO AND BEHOLD (FAITH AND BEGORRAH), this gravy had authentic drippings!
My taste buds dancing, I took a bite, and yes, it was the best gravy I've eaten since I started this blog. The sweetness of the chicken combined with the substance of the drippings coated my tongue with authenticity and pleasure. A 75% opacity was just enough for the flavour to shine through and really worked in favour of the sauce. It tasted like my imaginary Italian grandmother cooked a whole chicken for 2 hours then took it's drippings, mixed it with starch refined in the hills of Paraguay (which everyone knows is the best starch) and added spices meticulously chosen by a Mongolian Shaman. Every bite left me wanting more - I dipped my burger into it, then part of my sons meal, then the leftover bread - this was like some sort of never-ending tin of the good stuff.
At the end of the meal, the table and floor were covered in sugar packets and half eaten french fries, but I didn't really care. Much like a whirlwind relationship that instead ends on a positive note, this was a gravy that I was almost ready to stay and commit to; and as we departed the establishment only one thought stood out - that when we were back in Larne, we would find shelter in the comfort that this gravy provided.
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