Author: Ainsley Daschofsky
Every step I took away from the restaurant, concrete and bricks flashing into my eye retina, was like an interference. With a satisfaction so deep that the world couldn’t match, I licked my mind lips over and over. The match as a memory of fire hitting meat. The memory of lamb ribs on top of me like a lass I’d been imagining for years and had finally won. The fat from the smoked rib charred my teeth with a memory’s gush as the fat spilled down my throat, swallowed into me. Eyes closed, keeping all else away from the brain memorizing every pull of lamb rib. While not memorizing. You can’t memorize what you already know. What your beast knows. Your primal DNA making the taste succulent to your inner knowledge. That’s the thing about flavor. It is no hologram. It was not factory made …until it was. Meat and its flavor is known to every creature that is human. Whether you have McDonalds or not. They can only tap into the buds that scream and dance and cry to their passion. Food. Survival. Instinct. Your brain says meat should be inside it because it is your survival. Cured’s burger was this release from being a part of the world, the modern day, and back into the being part of your insides. The known without speaking. They don’t fuck with meat until it’s a veggie burger or lay down caramelized onions to hide the blood that isn’t there. Even the cheese goes inside the flavor. They char the blood to the perfect texture and honor its true flavor. They cure while pounding love into it. Eyes closed and mind dripping with bloody sweetness we call Cured our home.