Tamalehawk did not die in a tragic buffet accident. He has not been impaled on a beer garden umbrella, nor has he choked on a battered mushroom. He has been perched on ledges nationwide, lazily soaring above city buildings in search of something interesting to eat. He's landed back in the nest, briefly, and still hungry. To bring it over to pickles, Jimmy John's are near perfect, and Potbelly's sadly lacking. Never buy the cooked variety. Pickles belong in the fridge, swimming in a brine that you secretly take swigs of when you're a kid. Also, you can reuse that brine - chop up some carrots, celery, onions, and jalapenos and slide them right back in for a few days. You have made giardiniera, sort of.
Tamalehawk did eat Korean BBQ recently with the regular rookery of rogues. Amid a sea of banchan, suspiciously absent of tiny fish jerky, they dined on roasted quadruple bulgoki, shrimp, and squid. Tamalehawk can't resist the kimchi, the weird omelet things, and the crunchy discs that may just have been jicama. It took a fair amount of restraint to not wrestle the tongs away from the server. It's not often enough that Tamalehawk gets to man the coals.
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