Marsden Porterhouse

The 70-storey building was not merely a place of business, but a monument. The Porterhouse family was among the wealthiest and most respected on the continent. They belonged to the finest clubs. They knew the right people. They vacationed in the right places. Members of the family served on all the right committees. Sons and daughters attended the finest schools and were doctors, lawyers, and MBA's. Of all the Porterhouses, none was more committed to being the best than Marsden Porterhouse the third.

Marsden just knew that he was to journalism what Shakespeare had been to playwriting. Marsden worked for the Times, an enterprise dedicated to integrity in journalism. The Times reported without bias and without influence from special interest. The cross town Sun had strayed from news and seemed more interested in Paris Hilton's visits to the clinic. The bikini clad weather reporter might well sell papers, but was pedestrian sensationalism. It mattered little, he had found his calling. Today, Marsden was writing.

Marsen was hard at work, his refined palette noticed the hint of lime in the sauce. He made a note. He felt it a nice touch. The consistency of the potatoes was perfect. The beef was well done and without gristle. The beans were not too rigid and not too soft. Even the square cardboard box was performing well. Within the cellophane packaging that had accompanied his selection, were both a fork and spoon. Impressive. The wet nap was an inspired addition. The ‘bacon chilly curly fries’ would be receiving a top-drawer review.

Marsden was the Times fast-food critic. Despite the raucous hype, he had boldly predicted that the McRib would fail. It did. Marsden knew. His drive-thru exposes were legend. Marsden relied on true methodology. While other critics did write drive-thru reviews, they used their fancy stop watches. Watches that could be subject to slight interference from radio equipment skewing time. Marsden relied on the sands of his ever consistent hourglass. He could detect the passing of time to the 19th of a second. Gravity was constant and provided the most accurate measure. Of course Glen Gladden, the Sun fast-food critic, used a stopwatch.

Glen Gladden was fast food reviewing’s glamour boy. His stamp of approval was for sale. The cheap charlatan. Gladden could be found at all unveilings of new products. When Taco Bell unveiled the ‘pettito-burrito’, the snail filled delight, Gladden was at the opening. Larry King interviewed him that very evening. Gladden was everywhere, entourage in tow. His web page had thousands of hits. Glen Gladden dolls had been popular last Christmas. When he married Julia Roberts, Gladden actually sold the broadcast rights to the wedding. Gladden had even had a cameo in Tom Cruise's latest movie. In truth, than man could barely write.

Marsden hoped to restore dignity to fast food reviewing. Fortunately, opportunity was knocking. Gladden, of course, had endorsed the flashy premiere of Bingo's ‘spotted owl burger’. While Gladden was distracted with distancing himself from his review and rebuilding his image by appearing at spotted owl conservation events, Burger King was preparing to make history. Marsden would have the exclusive.

June 21, the first day of summer. Local sensation 'Burnt Toast' was playing a concert in the parking lot. The petting zoo was humming with electric anticipation. The balloons! Oh, the balloons. It was simply a sensational summer celebration, just as the commercial had announced. Gladden was nowhere to be seen. Marsden sat at a small table. He opened his notebook. He removed his aqua blue pen, his #12 pencil and pencil sharpener. His tape recorder set to record dictation, he was ready.



AP - Amid the fanfare giddily on display in the Burger King parking lot, something special was happening in the kitchen. The anticipation was at an end but the glitz and glamour were merely beginning. The service was strong as Becky, in addition to securing my order, acquainted me with the soda-pop list. I chose a stout yet slightly bitter Mountain Dew. Within 3 minutes, I received my order. Seldom does such an aggressive marketing campaign result in a product worthy of the ado. The commercial featuring Tom Hanks repeating "Grilled chicken cheese magic, buck buck!" has become a pop culture phenomena. 'Buck buck' has become a catch phrase to rival 'I've fallen and can't get up." Would Grilled Chicken cheese fingers fall and not be able to get up? You are about to find out.The chicken was properly prepared ensuring limited risk of salmonella poisoning. The texture of the batter appeared enticing due to the shine of an ideal amount of grease. The batter was only slightly crumbly and carried a hint of black pepper. The sauce was easy to access. Once I peeled open the packet, my nose was instantly informed that something special lie ahead. Within the home-style cheese dip, something tangy sent a pleasant sensation to my core. I suspected mayonnaise but Chef Travis was unsure and unable to decipher the ingredients. Whatever it may be, it succeeds. My compliments to Chef Travis, his tour de force made all the more impressive when one considers the pressures he was facing as he fears flunking geometry. Chicken Cheese fingers, I, for one, hope fate should be so kind as to ensure that Grilled Chicken Cheese fingers are here, and here to remain.
Marsden Porterhouse III