Nazi Germany
Zubeer Adolf Hipster - KVAZAR MOLOCH
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IN THE HONOR OF BORIS VON LhADA (Lada/Boris Lada) & @noodlelover
MY BELGRADE BROTHER-IN-ARMS, A GENERAL IN THE KITCHEN, A MARSHAL OF MEALTIME, HE DECLARES WAR ON HUNGER, HE ROARS, VOICE LIKE A TANK ENGINE FIRING UP AFTER A SIBERIAN WINTER, EYES GLEAMING LIKE BAYONETS UNDER A BLOOD-RED SUN (Boris twitched, a spasmodic jerk that sent a stray noodle flying across the room like a miniature, edible ICBM).
He's got a pot, big enough to bathe a bear in, filled with water, bubbling like a geyser in Kamchatka, "BOILING POINT, COMRADE, LIKE THE COLD WAR, BUT HOTTER, MUCH HOTTER!" (Boris REALLY saluted the boiling water, a crisp, precise movement, despite the tremor in his hand that suggested he'd recently wrestled a badger). He grabs the noodles, long, thin, like... like... "LIKE WHAT, BORIS?" I shout over the din of his culinary assault, "LIKE SPY WIRES
? LIKE TANK ANTENNAE ?" That nigga ignores me.
"THESE ARE NO ORDINARY NOODLES," he proclaims, holding them aloft like a captured flag, "THESE ARE... SPETZNAZ SPAGHETTI (Boris's nostrils flared, a subtle movement, yet one that conveyed the intensity of a thousand-yard stare).
He drops them in, a controlled explosion of pasta, water splashing like shrapnel, "INTO THE BREACH, MY NOODLE SOLDIERS, FIGHT FOR FLAVOR, FIGHT FOR... FOR..." He trails off, eyes glazed over, lost in a sauce-induced reverie. "FOR THE MOTHERLAND?" I offer, helpfully. "DA, FOR THE MOTHERLAND OF MY STOMACH!" he corrects, with the conviction of a man who's just discovered a new element on the periodic table, and that element is delicious. That ((SHIT)) Disgusting to eat (by the way)
He's stirring now, a rhythmic motion, like the loading of a Katyusha rocket launcher, each rotation precise, powerful, purposeful.
"STIR, COMRADE, STIR LIKE YOU'RE MIXING CONCRETE FOR A BUNKER, A BUNKER TO PROTECT THE PRECIOUS NOODLES FROM THE FORCES OF... OF BAD TASTE !" (Boris hummed a tuneless melody, a sound like a rusty tank tread grinding over gravel). He adds things, a pinch of this, a dash of that, each ingredient a secret weapon in his culinary arsenal. "PAPRIKA, FROM HUNGARY, FOR A FIERY KICK! DILL, FROM THE UKRAINIAN STEPPES, FOR A WHISPER OF FRESHNESS! A SECRET INGREDIENT," he leans in, conspiratorially, "A SINGLE TEAR, SHED DURING A SCREENING OF 'BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN', FOR ADDED DRAMA!"
(Boris winked, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow managed to convey both menace and mirth).
The sauce, oh, the sauce, it's simmering now, a bubbling cauldron of tomatoey goodness, "REDDER THAN A COMMISSAR'S BLUSH AFTER TOO MUCH VODKA!"
"NOW," he announces, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "WE WAIT. WE WAIT LIKE SNIPERS IN A GROZNY APARTMENT BUILDING, PATIENT, FOCUSED, READY TO STRIKE!"
(Boris stood perfectly still, except for a slight twitch in his left eyelid, a subtle tic that betrayed his barely contained excitement). He tests a noodle, a delicate operation, like defusing a bomb, "ALMOST... ALMOST... AL DENTE, LIKE A WELL-OILED KALASHNIKOV, FIRM BUT YIELDING!" He drains the noodles, a torrent of starchy water cascading into the sink, "THE ENEMY IS ROUTED, THE NOODLES ARE VICTORIOUS!" (Boris raised his fist in a triumphant gesture, a pose that would have looked perfectly at home on a Soviet propaganda poster).
He plates them, a mountain of steaming pasta, a monument to his culinary prowess, "A FEAST FIT FOR A GENERAL SECRETARY, OR AT LEAST A VERY HUNGRY COLONEL!"
He ladles on the sauce, a generous portion, "ENOUGH TO FEED A PLATOON, OR ONE VERY DETERMINED BORIS!"
(Boris grinned, a wide, manic grin that stretched from ear to ear, revealing a missing tooth, a battle scar from a particularly aggressive breadstick incident).
"NOW, COMRADE," he says, handing me a plate, "WE EAT! WE EAT LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW, BECAUSE IN THE WORLD OF NOODLES, THERE IS ONLY NOW, THERE IS ONLY... THE DELICIOUS PRESENT!"
He takes a bite, eyes closing in ecstasy, "PERFECTION," he sighs, "A MASTERPIECE OF MILITARY-GRADE GASTRONOMY, A TRIUMPH OF TASTE OVER... OVER... WHATEVER THE OPPOSITE OF TASTE IS!"
(Boris opened his eyes, a look of profound satisfaction on his face, a look that said, "I have conquered the world, one noodle at a time.").
"This," he declared, gesturing to the empty plate with his fork, "this is better than a May Day parade, better than a ride in a T-90 tank, better than... than... finding a perfectly preserved Lenin statue in your babushka's attic!" He leaned back, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "This," he repeated, "is... noodletopia." "Ja," he added, almost as an afterthought, "das ist gut. Sehr gut." (Boris then proceeded to hum the Soviet national anthem, slightly off-key, but with great enthusiasm, a fitting end to a truly epic noodle adventure).
Enjoy your noodles
Or Spaghetti
@_MVP_ @Ron.Belgrade @BigJimsWornOutTires @Vermilioncore
MY BELGRADE BROTHER-IN-ARMS, A GENERAL IN THE KITCHEN, A MARSHAL OF MEALTIME, HE DECLARES WAR ON HUNGER, HE ROARS, VOICE LIKE A TANK ENGINE FIRING UP AFTER A SIBERIAN WINTER, EYES GLEAMING LIKE BAYONETS UNDER A BLOOD-RED SUN (Boris twitched, a spasmodic jerk that sent a stray noodle flying across the room like a miniature, edible ICBM).
He's got a pot, big enough to bathe a bear in, filled with water, bubbling like a geyser in Kamchatka, "BOILING POINT, COMRADE, LIKE THE COLD WAR, BUT HOTTER, MUCH HOTTER!" (Boris REALLY saluted the boiling water, a crisp, precise movement, despite the tremor in his hand that suggested he'd recently wrestled a badger). He grabs the noodles, long, thin, like... like... "LIKE WHAT, BORIS?" I shout over the din of his culinary assault, "LIKE SPY WIRES
? LIKE TANK ANTENNAE ?" That nigga ignores me."THESE ARE NO ORDINARY NOODLES," he proclaims, holding them aloft like a captured flag, "THESE ARE... SPETZNAZ SPAGHETTI (Boris's nostrils flared, a subtle movement, yet one that conveyed the intensity of a thousand-yard stare).
He drops them in, a controlled explosion of pasta, water splashing like shrapnel, "INTO THE BREACH, MY NOODLE SOLDIERS, FIGHT FOR FLAVOR, FIGHT FOR... FOR..." He trails off, eyes glazed over, lost in a sauce-induced reverie. "FOR THE MOTHERLAND?" I offer, helpfully. "DA, FOR THE MOTHERLAND OF MY STOMACH!" he corrects, with the conviction of a man who's just discovered a new element on the periodic table, and that element is delicious. That ((SHIT)) Disgusting to eat (by the way)
He's stirring now, a rhythmic motion, like the loading of a Katyusha rocket launcher, each rotation precise, powerful, purposeful.
"STIR, COMRADE, STIR LIKE YOU'RE MIXING CONCRETE FOR A BUNKER, A BUNKER TO PROTECT THE PRECIOUS NOODLES FROM THE FORCES OF... OF BAD TASTE
!" (Boris hummed a tuneless melody, a sound like a rusty tank tread grinding over gravel). He adds things, a pinch of this, a dash of that, each ingredient a secret weapon in his culinary arsenal. "PAPRIKA, FROM HUNGARY, FOR A FIERY KICK! DILL, FROM THE UKRAINIAN STEPPES, FOR A WHISPER OF FRESHNESS! A SECRET INGREDIENT," he leans in, conspiratorially, "A SINGLE TEAR, SHED DURING A SCREENING OF 'BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN', FOR ADDED DRAMA!"(Boris winked, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow managed to convey both menace and mirth).
The sauce, oh, the sauce, it's simmering now, a bubbling cauldron of tomatoey goodness, "REDDER THAN A COMMISSAR'S BLUSH AFTER TOO MUCH VODKA!"
"NOW," he announces, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "WE WAIT. WE WAIT LIKE SNIPERS IN A GROZNY APARTMENT BUILDING, PATIENT, FOCUSED, READY TO STRIKE!"
(Boris stood perfectly still, except for a slight twitch in his left eyelid, a subtle tic that betrayed his barely contained excitement). He tests a noodle, a delicate operation, like defusing a bomb, "ALMOST... ALMOST... AL DENTE, LIKE A WELL-OILED KALASHNIKOV, FIRM BUT YIELDING!" He drains the noodles, a torrent of starchy water cascading into the sink, "THE ENEMY IS ROUTED, THE NOODLES ARE VICTORIOUS!" (Boris raised his fist in a triumphant gesture, a pose that would have looked perfectly at home on a Soviet propaganda poster).
He plates them, a mountain of steaming pasta, a monument to his culinary prowess, "A FEAST FIT FOR A GENERAL SECRETARY, OR AT LEAST A VERY HUNGRY COLONEL!"
He ladles on the sauce, a generous portion, "ENOUGH TO FEED A PLATOON, OR ONE VERY DETERMINED BORIS!"
(Boris grinned, a wide, manic grin that stretched from ear to ear, revealing a missing tooth, a battle scar from a particularly aggressive breadstick incident).
"NOW, COMRADE," he says, handing me a plate, "WE EAT! WE EAT LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW, BECAUSE IN THE WORLD OF NOODLES, THERE IS ONLY NOW, THERE IS ONLY... THE DELICIOUS PRESENT!"
He takes a bite, eyes closing in ecstasy, "PERFECTION," he sighs, "A MASTERPIECE OF MILITARY-GRADE GASTRONOMY, A TRIUMPH OF TASTE OVER... OVER... WHATEVER THE OPPOSITE OF TASTE IS!"
(Boris opened his eyes, a look of profound satisfaction on his face, a look that said, "I have conquered the world, one noodle at a time.").
"This," he declared, gesturing to the empty plate with his fork, "this is better than a May Day parade, better than a ride in a T-90 tank, better than... than... finding a perfectly preserved Lenin statue in your babushka's attic!" He leaned back, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "This," he repeated, "is... noodletopia." "Ja," he added, almost as an afterthought, "das ist gut. Sehr gut." (Boris then proceeded to hum the Soviet national anthem, slightly off-key, but with great enthusiasm, a fitting end to a truly epic noodle adventure).
@_MVP_ @Ron.Belgrade @BigJimsWornOutTires @Vermilioncore
