Well-done. There is no pleasure on Earth as satisfying as a well-made, much-needed meal, none! and here I speak from experience. How much? Nunyabidness, but more than enough.

I'm very fortunate to live in Vancouver, home of the greatest pleasure/dining dollar ratio on the planet (with the exception of the dining room of the Weltefaren Homestay…on Pulau Ai…in the Bandas…part of the Moluccas…in the eastern part of Indonesia…not far from Irian Jaya…they've stopped killing the Christians now…ran out…you see why I leave it off the list?). So when I have some cash jingling in my pocket – and God knows the amounts of cash I usually possess jingle rather than rustle, alas – I like to take myself out for a nice meal.

Certainly, I've had some crappy meals in my time, but most of them have been my own fault, rather than a restaurant's. Sure, there was the "Chicken Teri Yucky" in Honolulu, and I've gnawed my way through countless plates of rubbery, tasteless pasta at chain restaurants preferred by the sort of men I used to date. They always said they chose those restaurants because they liked to know what they were getting; as a comedienne once said, the difference between men and women is that when you take us out and you wonder what you're going to get later, we already know. And believe me, TGIFriday's isn't gonna help your cause. I'm not in the realms of the dinner whores, but it had better be at least as good as something I could have made myself, otherwise why would I put up with the ridiculous spaceship-themed drink menu and the oversize, overloud sports tv? Word to the wise: Eighties soft rock does not put us "in the mood." There's only so much Steve Perry can do for ya.

Where was I before I started ranting? Oh yeah, in utero.

Anyway…

I've had my share of craptastic meals on my own. They were largely, I am proud to say, not the result of cuilinary incompetence but rather the result of shall we say catastrophically limited menu options. Like, limited to what the Food Bank put in the bag that day. Just try and whip up something wonderful out of four frozen sweet potatos the size of your calves, a tin of anchovies, and a jar of garlic dills.

Actually the worst on paper wasn't too bad in action: I had heated and quickly snarfed a really quite decent can of beef stew, chock-full of meaty chunks. SCORE! Processed meat, of course, but then any protein that comes in a can is far from its original state; that's a given. I think it all comes from the same animal as acrylic fur; doesn't it live in Russia and Mongolia? But anyway, when you're Food Bank-dependent, any non-bean protein is like manna from heaven. And, curious, I picked up the can to read the calories per serving, for lo even the poor watch their weight. Couldn't find it. No nutritional info except ingredients. Odd. Then I noticed something down near the bottom of the can, a little banner trumpeting some benefits of the nutritional powerhouse that was said Beef Stew.

"Helps maintain a healthy coat."

Oh. Joy.

But I have to admit, it still tasted better than some of the things I've had in restaurants.

And on that note, it's time to throw in a link to the Top 50 Restaurants in the World.

Bon Appetit!