Parmocolypse: A Scrutiny Of Parmigiana Servings

I’m not afraid to tackle the big issues. I’m not going to sit idly by as we witness such cruel injustice. I think if we all band together and tell those bastards in charge what’s what, then we just may change the world for the better. What am I talking about? Simple: we must change the way the chicken parmigiana is served.

Consider this my ‘chicken-parma 3 part odyssey’ – or ‘C3PO’.

I’m going to start with the salad. I know he’s not the lead role in this meal, but he’s an important supporting character. He’s there so I can justify eating half a chicken. And when I say salad, I mean a vast array of several different vegetables covered lightly with a nice dressing. I do not mean half a shriveled lettuce and a few carrot peelings. I know a lot of people don’t eat the salad, but at least give me the option of eating it. Don’t just assume that I’m so gargantuan that I merely use the lettuce as a serviette. I don’t feel healthy because I’ve witnessed some lettuce. I want some fucking cucumber, tomato and maybe some onion. I alone will make the decision as to whether I will eat the salad. Don’t abandon all hope for my ideal weight, at least not without consulting me first.

What I feel many people also don’t understand is why the chips are doomed to be hidden beneath the parma. When did it become textbook procedure to put the main on top of the side? I didn’t order a parmiagana flavoured trifle, nor did I order a parma and chip salad. We deserve better plating arrangement. If I wanted soggy chips, I would’ve gone to KFC. Why not make the plate bigger, or just make a pile out of the chips? Or even sacrifice the lettuce-themed salad because you’ve obviously given up on anyone eating that anyway?

I’m not bothered if a few stray chips fall atop my parma, nor am I annoyed if the salad dressing crosses path with a chip. I am bothered if I have to re-arrange my whole plate in order to have a stable base beneath the parma so I can safely and easily cut it into bite size pieces. I ordered chips, not mashed potato; get it together, world.

There’s not a lot of bad things I can say about the parma itself. There’s something about chicken, cheese and Napoli sauce that just makes me want to ejaculate into the tablecloth. Sure, sometimes it might be under-cooked, but a little salmonella never hurt anybody. And yes, sometimes it’s more bread crumb than breast, but the establishments that serve such atrocities are quickly boycotted and labeled traitors of mankind.

But if I have problems with the way the parma is served, and still salivate every time I dream about eating one, then maybe the people who serve parmas have a better understanding of how great a weapon they have. If the parma has so many imperfections, and so many people arguing merely about its pronunciation, and people still put it on a pedestal where it belongs, perhaps its imperfection is in fact its perfection.

So God bless you, pub owners, for putting up with the scorn of unhappy parma-vores like me. Just maybe dish up a decent fucking salad every once in a while.
ED NOTE: for those of you who call Brisbane home, The Flying Cock do a pretty stellar effort and a tasty two for one deal on Wednesdays. 

Written by Christian Eva.


The Housemates: