I was talking to a buddy of mine a while ago about the weirdest couple names she’s ever heard of/used herself. She didn’t say anything too outlandish (wax candle was my favourite; who calls their significant other: ‘wax candle?). She then asked me the same question and I was stumped. Except for some weird lapses […]
My co-workers visited Three Williams in the morning and told me that the coffee was pretty amazing. Due to the fact that I have trust issues built up over years of lies from my parents (I’m still recovering from Santa being just some dude with a fake beard), I had to see for myself it the coffee lived up to the hype.
I make my own blend of iced coffee at home and it tastes awful. I still drink it because I need a pick me up in the morning and leaving the house looking like an extra that’s crawled off the set of ‘the Walking Dead’ is deemed unprofessional.
This is an upscale burger. This isn’t my family’s old Toyota Camry; this is a Lamborghini speeding its way into my stomach.
These were the perfect wings that took me through the roof and into Nirvana.
Shake Shack should be a national heritage site. It should be placed on all ‘places to visit’ brochures of every city fortunate enough to boast one of (if not the best) burger franchises in the Milky Way. Am I being hyperbolic? Hell, I might be underselling the greatest burger experience I’ve ever had.
I’d suggest you sneak in some chicken salt but I’m pretty sure the staff would catch you and it’d be hard to explain that you were merely following the advice of a food blogger that’s not even in Sydney’s top 150.
If these hot dogs were the Beatles; my karaage dog would’ve been John Lennon, my kransky would’ve been Paul McCartney, the teriyaki chicken would’ve been George Harrison and the poor potato and beef croquette would’ve been Ringo Starr. He would’ve been the drawcard for any other band but tonight was not the night.
I approve of anything that can make me laugh and a grown woman trying to catch deep fried fish falling out of her burger fits that category.
Someday, I’ll dedicate an entire blog entry to who has the best fries in Sydney (perhaps the world) and Charlie & Co’s offering will definitely make the list.
The level of cheese on this hot dog was the equivalent of how cheesy I am towards girls I like. From a distance you think it’s way too much but observe it from up close you know that it means well and that I taste good.
That sounded really weird. I’m sorry.
My only complaint about the fries was that there wasn’t enough to last me a lifetime.
