USA, Spartanburg South Carolina

Spartanburg Spartanburg Spartanburg

I am not a religious man nor did I ever dream that I would be thrust into the bowel of Dante’s inferno to come face to face with the root of all evil.

I still have not made this epoch journey but thanks to Spartanburg South Carolina I can now contemplate what such a journey might look like. I have not seen my own personal hell but have heard The Voice and I have seen what hell would look like if I were living on the Pritikin diet of steamed brown rice, raw vegetables, and organic nuts and twigs.

Spartanburg is hell in the Bible Belt and at the bottom of this pit of misery and cruelty sits The Beacon restaurant. My guide gently massaged his roles of enveloping fat though the nondescript door, “Now yous know The Beacon be woooorld famious. They’s got them signs all over say’n how far yous got to go to get here.”

As I sucked in my first breath of pungent Beacon air I immediately knew I had entered a different realm. Within moments my teeth, throat and lungs were coated in a fine layer of fry grease. My foot momentarily skidded across the floor as it sought traction on a surface nearly devoid of friction. Without so much as seeing the food my mental image of Pritikin began to convulse and writhe in pain. “Now hole up der. Yous don’t just go walkin’ up to order. Yous got ta know what yous gunna get first. Old T.J. he dun like it one bit if yous dun know what yous gunna get. He yell at ya some-um terrible if yous anti got it tegether. Yous got ta Talk or Walk.”

Then T.J. bellowed back to the kitchen, “BLAA! UHMMM! PLANN!” At this very moment my linguistic abilities came to a crashing halt and I realized that I had no idea what TJ had just said. Someone had told this unassuming man in a white shirt what he wanted to eat and in turn T.J. issued his command to the kitchen. The command came out with a rock concert volume and energy that would have sent even the most hardened, spiked haired, pink mohawked, head banger, cowering into the nearest corner.

My guide resumed, “Don’t yous worry none. Yous get yourself a Hash-a-Plenty an-a sweet tea.” I had no idea what a Hash-a-Plenty was but the mere mention of sweet tea sent Pritikin into convulsions. Frothy foam oozed form his mouth and his eyes rolled back into his head. I opted for water instead.

“I’ll have a Hash-a-Plenty please.”

“BLAAA! UNHAASH! PLENNNNTY! I CALLLLED IT!”

Safely passed TJ I caught my first glimpse of the fry vats and the grill. This was not a kitchen at all. Rather I was looking at an amphibious production line submerged in a sea of grease. Congealed slugs of ‘food’ belched forth, landing on plates with an audible splat, skidding to the rim, ricocheting off one side then another, all the wile tracing a shinny tail in their wake. More slugs followed, then still more, the plate was piled higher and higher until an unstable pyramid formed. When the plate could hold no more bits of Hash-a-Plenty skidded unregarded to the floor.

Pritikin began wildly thrashing and contorting unable to escape the never-ending agony of The Beacon’s divine and righteous wrath.

From above came the mighty voice, “He who has opposed me shall know my wrath. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you. Now go forth unto the earth and eat fatty foods and drink really really sweet tea.”

Fortunately I am not Pritikin. I escape with only a bloated stomach, clogged arteries, aspiring diabetes, high blood pressure, bad breath and a new understanding of divine vengeance.