Malibu Pat's Killer Sandwich

Things have not gone well for The Angry Chef this week. The butcher store where I held my day job, cutting off tails and snouts and spreading wood chips over especially large bloodstains was shut down for "possible e-Coli" contamination. I blame this on Abdullah, the lead butcher, and his strict adherence to the fifteen second rule. So now, I'm only left with a couple of part-time catering gigs once or twice a week and a steady date with the classifieds.

But on Monday, just as I had finally gotten the couch cushions the way I liked them, just after I had opened my first can of Blatz, and just after Cops had started, there was a banging at my apartment door.

It was my old friend, Malibu Pat, from Hawaii. Mama Angry Chef had always warned me to stay away from Malibu Pat when I was younger because, "He's trouble." Sure enough, as soon as he stepped into my place, trouble ensued.

I don't remember a lot about that Monday night. We called Tulip, and she came out with us to The Zebra Room and The Voodoo Lounge. I think she started a fight with somebody over pinball... or maybe that was her dancing on the bar. I'm really not sure. Malibu Pat kept pushing Manhattans and Old Fashioneds in my face while he sucked on these gigantic, multi-colored drinks, decorated with umbrellas and fruit salads.

"What the hell are you drinking?" I'd ask.

"Malibu spritzers, Malibu Maui Wowies, Malibu and orange, Malibu Beaches, Malibu Slammers..." he went on.

"Why only Malibu?"

"Cuz its from where I live."

"I thought you lived in Hawaii."

"I do."

Everything got hazy after that.

Anyways, I woke up the next morning to a foul smell. Not foul like the smells I'm used to after the usual drunken bender. No this was worse. This was the smell of something... something awful, cooking. I ran into the kitchen with my hand over my face only to find Malibu Pat, in a flowery shirt and tighty whiteys standing by my stove and making something vile on it.

"What the fuck is that?" I asked politely.

"THIS... is the Malibu sandwich. You can eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. With or without the bun. With or without ketchup and Tabasco. With or without a fork."

"How about, in or outside the Goddamn house?" I growled.

"Let me show you how to make one," he said with a shit-eating grin.

What You Need To Get:

1 can of Spam (if you get caught stealing this they're only going to laugh at you)

Eggs (possibly the only healthy ingredient, steal them)

1 sleeve of Saltines (or Panko bread crumbs, if you think you're better then us)

Butter (use your best judgement, so, a lot)

White bread

Mayo

Pepper

1 can pineapple slices

Ketchup (optional: that means, screw it)

Hot Sauce (optional: see above)

I should've rethought the title for this post. Spam probably won't kill you. But its so full of chemicals and preservatives that it will make someone in their twenties look like a WWII vet and keep them that way until they die of some mysterious illness at 145. If you'd like to live in a nursing home for the next 80 years (and there really are some nice ones that serve only the best Jell-O these days), then read on.

First, open the can of Spam and cut it into six slices. Try not to gag. Take a slice and dip it into a bowl of beaten eggs. Then dip the slice into a bowl of Saltine crumbs. This should make it look more attractive. Meanwhile, my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, has melted a bunch of butter in a super hot pan and is starting to curse as it spits on her. This is the way I want it. Food is pain.

Drop the Spam slice onto the pan and let it sit for about four minutes or so. Don't fucking touch it. When the kitchen starts to smell like pig hell, flip the slice, and leave it alone for another four minutes.

My sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, has meanwhile taken two slices of white bread and spread a thick coating of mayo on one of them. I chose Wonder Bread because I figure, if you're not gonna settle for real meat, why settle for real bread? After arguing over what was better, Mayo or Miracle Whip, we finally found a jar of mayo in the fridge that had expired in March of '08. We used this with no hesitation because #1 It was free, and #2 We believe there is no such thing as mayo "expiring".

When its done, slap the slice down on the mayo-ed piece of bread and sprinkle a little pepper on it. The slice should be a golden, almost edible looking brown. Top it with a few slices of pineapple and close it up.

If you're still even paying some sort of fucking attention, you will notice that you still have five slices of Spam left. One word: Repeat, dumbass.

Malibu Pat explained that he likes the sandwich above for lunch. He enjoys this monstrosity outside the bun with Tabasco, using a knife and fork for breakfast. And, this is the worst, I couldn't even list it in the ingredients; he eats it on Kaiser rolls with...pickles... for dinner.

My sous-Angry Chef Tulip has dug in to her Malibu Pat sandwich as I am about to run to the bathroom gagging. They are chatting it up, having a great time, making seconds as the desperation and processed meat that life brings continues to rise in my stomach.

Then my sous-Angry Chef, Tulip, asks Malibu Pat when his flight home leaves.

"Flight home?" he says, clearly confused. "I drove here."