Chicken salad on white from The Kitchen Door, as favored by bicycle hottie Lance Armstrong
I’ve noticed that people who have never been to Texas like to imagine that it’s an arid armpit from which protrudes the occasional saguaro cactus. Probably this is because they dislike Texans so much that they are comforted by the thought of us eking out our miserable Texan larger-than-lives with nothing but hot sand to look at as far as the eye can see. Well, nyah nyah. The fact is that the epicenter of Texas is conveniently situated in the middle of a bunch of gorgeous verdant hills, around which many picturesque country roads wind and twist like sargasso grass. These roads are often choked with cyclists. One of these cyclists is Lance Armstrong.
My sister, who has a master’s degree in human body parts, says that Lance Armstrong is a physiological anomaly, a biological sport. I don’t know from phsyiology, but it so happens that the other day I was in the roadster, tooling along 290W towards Johnson City and thinking pleasant thoughts about tacos, when a bizarre flash of light in the right-hand lane roused me from my reverie. Who should I espy but young Lance and his Subaru chase vehicle, melting the pavement on a long uphill?
The dude was going lickety-split like no split that has ever gone lickety before! White-hot flames shot out from his spokes, and sonic booms tore through the air. It was a breathtaking tableau. I roared past him, of course, but I was in a Porsche, a conveyance specifically designed for roaring past other conveyances. I also flipped him the bird, because when I’m drivin’ that car, I am a total dick.
I don’t know about the Lance Factor in your town, but in Austin the local populace is basically cuckoo for El Armstrong. Lance, Lance, Lance. They strew rose petals in his path, annoint his feet with frankincense, and hang on his every word, which they then publish in magazines and newspapers.
Which is how I came to understand that Lance regards the chicken salad sandwich at the Kitchen Door on Lake Austin Blvd as the city’s best. And if it’s good enough for a guy who can pedal a bicycle at 389 miles an hour, it’s good enough for the dipshit who flips him off while he’s doing it.