‘If one happened to wake, suddenly, in the lobby of ‘The Casserole Palace,’ one might be forgiven for thinking they had drunkenly stumbled into a geological museum and not a tribute to the hot dish. It’s an easy mistake to make. You see, faced with the problem of displaying something that tends to ruin after a day at room temperature, ‘The Casserole Palace’ has preserved their subjects in two relatively novel ways:
Historical casseroles, of which there are only eleven, have been completely dried out and are sat, like mummies, on a little shelf in a climate controlled room. If it weren’t for the context, nobody would believe this collection of dust ever passed as food.
Examples of more modern renditions, on the other hand, are preserved in thick glass cylinders to better display their layers. These are core samples of casseroles prepared on a massive scale. Nobody knows what kitchen it outfitted to make them and nobody knows where the rest of each dish goes but don’t let the mysteries distract you. The tubes are not particularly aesthetic on their own but, together, they form a hardy sort of rainbow- a celebration of food in a diversity of beige.’
I’m not sure anybody loves casseroles as a category of food, but I think everybody loves a casserole. And it’s been a while, you know. I’ve been traveling for a long time and casseroles are not the sort of thing you buy in the store or make in a motel room or cook over a fire or even order at a restaurant.
So, yes, I spend fifty dollars to eat at ‘The Casserole Palace’s’ buffet and, in addition to a pretty passable chicken-broccoli I inadvertently gain access to something wholly horrifying: their mix-and-match casserole machine. Take the overall concept of a frozen yogurt place but strip away the decency until it’s something more like the soda fountain at a rundown gas station. Imagine spigots thick enough to release chunky soups and pans that range from personal-sized to unwieldy. End it with a conveyor belt and an industrial oven. That’s the mix-and-match casserole machine. A thing that should not exist.
A laminated guide near the start of this monstrosity politely suggests that customers limit themselves to three layers and two topping for any one pass-through. Seeing that it’s widely ignored, I do what any man, drunk on home cooking, would do in my position. I create the suicide casserole: a thin spray of every layer, a small handful of every topping. It comes out looking like any casserole, really. The upper layer, thick with cheese, resists cutting. When I finally make a mark, hot liquid from inside pools up and congeals in the air. The surface heals itself before a minute has passed. I start again.
I manage a few bites but, like any food built for fun, it isn’t very good. I pack the rest and carry it with me, telling myself that I’ll work my way through it until the dairy fillings spoil.
I don’t.
I dump it off the side of the highway, telling myself, instead, that some animal may still choose to eat it so that I feel less guilty about the waste. It oozes off the shoulder, a motley roadkill returning to the earth.
-traveler
