I'm supposed to be on a diet, which means I work out everyday and end up famished every night.
After candlelight yoga tonight, I just wasn't in the mood for the defrosting steak and 99 Ranch napa cabbage waiting to be cooked at home.
I hate cooking to begin with - after all, I am the founder of #ladiescookingclub (check out our #fuckyeahfatty exploits on Instagram) whose slogan is "Who's cooking? Not us!" and all I wanted was someone to bring saturated fats directly to my mouth like a true American.
10pm in the outer OUTER San Gabriel Valley left me only one option on Yelp: Cha Cafe.
It was time.
Cha Cafe's claim to fame is their ramen burger, served after 4:30pm in limited quantity - pre-reservations encouraged.
I'd been saving this moment for the right time, and that time - still sore from hip-hop last night and sleepy from my Downton Abbey marathon - was now. I called ahead and with an hour to closing the infamous burger was available.
"Do you want that with a fried egg as well?"
Of course I did. I placed an order for takeout.
Sophia Meets the Devil
Ten minutes later I waltzed in, giddy with the illicitness of my impromptu cheat meal, and declared I was too hungry to take it out; I would be dining in, if you please.
"I'll get you set up," the cheerful cashier said, even calling my AMEX card the restaurant's best friend. I should have known then I was walking into my destruction.
Barely able to contain myself long enough to take the Instagram photo, I dove into the deep-fried potato chips. CHIPS. I don't think I ate potato chips even when I wasn't on a diet. Now I was dipping them gleefully into the tub of lard they called spicy mayo.
My god potatoes cooked in cholesterol are an eighth wonder.
I faced the burger at last.
They seasoned the ramen. Before frying it in cardiac arrest.
To my credit, which was fastly depleting as I scarfed my new MSG-laden best friend, I only ate 2/3 of the burger.
By the time I put the burger down, the bloodlust had dissipated. I looked down at the carnage, as dismayed as a new vampire whose closest artery was her own mother.
I stumbled out on shaky legs, dizzy as a new crackwhore, and hurried to my car, clutching the box of leftovers to my chest in shame.