Some might liken it to chili fries, others to poutine. But that’s like calling the Blazers of 2013 just like the 2011 Trailblazers but with Damian Lillard. Or saying Wham is just George Michael with some Andrew Ridgeley on top. I start with evenly metered out nibbles. Within seconds, I’m not sure if I’m mowing down on it so hard because it’s tasty food or because it is a mermaid and I am some emaciated sub-aquatic vampire. I can’t tell if time has sped up or slowed down. Could I be noshing in freeze frame? After all, how could one small plate last a fortnight? Time becomes infinite and meaningless inside of the reggae beat pumping down from the speakers inside the adjoining lounge I enter to dine. Did I find myself jamming along, head swiveling, or does that occur only in my mind? Or do I actually like and get reggae now? Nooooooooooo.

 

But between that soundtrack and the video loop airing on multiple TV sets above me with trippy-colored images and memes—first of Michael Nesmith mega sideburned out, then an oedipal disco soap opera, then something that was either an erotic detergent commercial or PG porn—it dawns on me I’m fluffin’ baked. And I still have half a tray of patatje stoof left and I may never come down.

The atmosphere wants me up—in the weed world this would be an Indica strain high—what with pixies and Tina Turner and what I can only describe as a gay Skeletor/Terminator hybrid on TV. But I feel the paranoia sinking in—past the Sativa strain mellow and into a moodier realm—and wonder what was in that caramel-like edible I’d sampled. It seemed the size of a Starburst but the way the hawker exclaimed, “Oh, big piece” makes me contemplate the sagacity of scarfing it in a single bite. Also, reflecting on some dried sour apricots I brought as a snack, I realize that they’re absolutely one of my favorite foods of all time. Like, last-meal item good. I’m vibrating-knees deep into a three-hour high, a three-hour high, and ponder about opening a patatje stoof cart when I move back to Stumptown.