This is not my first year to cover the Rangers’ annual sacrifice to man’s bottomless pit of desire for new and strange meats to hork down their throats, so I can’t even blame my failure on it being a “rookie mistake”. Perhaps I was slowed by last year’s unholy barrage, allowing the wolves of time and age to drag me a little further towards the dust from whence I came. Or perhaps this year’s offerings were larger and more multitudinous than the last. Whatever the reason, I come before you today a humbled man: I was not able to eat one of everything.
I did try. Here is the story of my failed quest.
First things first: the kind folks at Delaware North Sportservice put all these samples on tiny little plates, ostensibly to prevent someone from trying exactly what I had set out to try. Undeterred, I made three trips back and forth, loaded up like a waiter who just got quadruple-sat. Hi, my name is Levi, I’ll be right with you, I just-- I’m doing damage to my corporeal being right now, but I’ll be back in a sec for your drink order.”
I decided to start with the Strawberry and Quinoa Summer Salad.
It tasted like good decisions, so I promptly set it aside.
Next up was *squints at notes* “Burrito thingy on wheat? Delicious - wow.” I later found out that it was the Gluten-Free Veggie wrap, filled with black beans, fresh greens, and sweet peppers, served with salsa ranch dressing. Maybe this is why I couldn’t finish everything. I had made the mistake of starting with two healthy choices in a row, and by the time all the troublemakers arrived, there was a counseling center all set up and no smoking signs everywhere. NPR was playing at a reasonable volume, and oh man, that was not a welcoming setting for the proverbial smoke-blowing monster truck blaring Kid Rock that was up next.
The MVT. That stands for Most Valuable Tamale (or Massive Vomit Trajectory, should you try to eat it on your own). It’s a 24” Boomstick hot dog, wrapped in a tamale, coated with chili, cheese, and sour cream. I have to tell you: if the hot dog were grilled, I would 100% be amped to the pits for this item. Unfortunately, the hot dog appeared to be boiled. This is where everything started to go badly for me. I needed a drink, and a pallet-cleanser.
I opted for the “Mediterranean Nachos”, which is a Baseball way of saying “Pita chips, Hummus, and olives.”
I eat this at home all the time, so I thought perhaps the familiarity would soothe my stomach. It did, temporarily. ONWARD.
Alas, time was beginning to warp. I remembered the stream behind my grandparents' house where we used to race newspaper boats. I remembered the future. I reached for the next plate.
Fritos Kimchi Chili Dog:
This is a chili cheese dog, but with Kimchi on it. Admission time: I don’t know what kimchi is, and I don’t think I’ve ever had it before. Thus, Kimchi’s maiden voyage down my throatpipe was going to be as a crew member on the S.S. Chili Dog. I paused before my first bite and caught myself making a sound that can only be described as “Marge Simpson isn’t sure this is a good idea.”
Marge was right. I swabbed my finger into last of the hummus to reset.
With my stomach now in open revolt, tt was time to go all-in:
The Texas Snowballs. This daring invention is a monstrosity forged in some sweet cauldron where mankind knows no fear of death or indigestion. As the press release goes, the Texas snowballs are “Classic ballpark shredded brisket, rolled into balls and dipped in funnel cake batter, deep fried to golden perfection and covered in powdered sugar (giving it that “snowball” look). I expected immediate death. I had earned it.
I ate the snowball brisket sugarball BBBall in one bite pic.twitter.com/I7FJXlPdFK— Levi Weaver (@ThreeTwoEephus) March 30, 2017
I was in a spiral. I looked over the remaining options. I had maybe two choices left out of eight or nine. I chose a rib as the room spun wildly. The mmeates. I ne4ed metes.
I dashed the other plates wildly into a wall as my shirt ripped at the seams and barbeque sweat dripped from my forehead. “I AM DEFEATEDDDDD!!!” I yelled, the shame billowing out of my soul (it smelled like smoked meat) I chugged what remained of my Dr. Pepper and motioned to the room. “WE LIVE LIKE KINGS,” I sobbed. “WE ARE BABYLON.” I rent the remains of my shirt in two and sank to my knees.
You can find a full list of the new concessions items here.