W2: Pawpaws [And Potatoes Olé]

“At least you were able to experience Taco John’s.” said my brother in the tone of a guilty child. True, it was partly my fault that we ended up in the horrific establishment, but fury visibly seeped through my flesh much like the grease of my mini hash browns seeped through my napkin. The tiny deep-fried potato circles are the pride of Taco John’s: Potatoes Olé. They are pathetic and revolting, just like me.

Earlier, the two of us had set out for the Pawpaw Festival, prepared to arrive just in time for Pawpaw 101. We had on hand a set of directions from Google Maps scrawled in shorthand by my printer-less brother, who agreed to provide me with transportation to the festival on the condition that I buy him a meal afterward. Suffice it to say, things did not go as planned. After getting off of US-50 and onto US-33—diligently following my brother’s dubious directions like the fools that we were/are—we eagerly searched for an “East Bentbrook Drive” that would supposedly carry us straight to Lake Snowden. We never discovered the mythical road, but did learn that once taken far enough, Route 33 is essentially a nightmarish racetrack into the hell that is Meigs County. Although we realized soon enough that we were headed in a hopeless direction, there were no roads to turn off on until 681 popped up out of nowhere. We were led through some quaint country scenery, admired a lovely sign advertising “SLABS” and eventually found ourselves in Albany. Sadly, we were far too late to attend Pawpaw 101.

Feeling jaded and without purpose, the two of us spent little time at the festival. After briefly loitering about, we grabbed a pawpaw and made a hasty exit. Once in the privacy of our vehicle, we set to work: A Swiss army knife was used to saw through the skin of the fruit, seeds were discarded, and two young men who once had dignity dug into their pawpaw halves with their fingers. The pawpaw has a texture quite similar to that of a banana, which makes clawing it with your fingers fairly easy, but also intensely embarrassing. The flavor of the pawpaw brought bananas to mind as well, but it was, to my surprise, considerably sweeter. The night before, to prep myself for the festival, I ordered a cinnamon and sugar-covered pumpkin and pawpaw pastry.Based on the experience, I would have suggested that the pawpaw fruit tasted remarkably similar to pumpkin and cinnamon.

As a man of my word, I entertained my dear brother’s desire to go to Taco John’s, despite his lackluster performance as a chauffeur.If you’re unfamiliar with the restaurant, as I once was, it is essentially Taco Bell with hash browns and insulting prices. It’s not that I hate the idea of Taco John’s—apparently “West-Mex” represented by tacos and potatoes—but in practice, the combination does not work for me. Potatoes Olé are presented to you in a bucket so that your likely already dwindling self-respect can be crushed further. They were even considerately inserted into my burrito, so that I could better appreciate their greasy, potatoesque flavor inside instantly recognizable, slimy meat ooze—an ooze that I will defend, as long as it costs me little over a dollar at Taco Bell. Despite being filled to the brim with ice, my sweet tea was warm. It failed to compliment the subtle flavors of my meat and potato burrito.

After jiving to musical classics like “Whoomp! (There it is)” and “It Wasn’t Me” we grabbed two churros and went on our way.While biting into his (admittedly delicious) sugar stick on the way out to our car, my brother turned to me and said, “What Athens really needs is a festival for is churros.”

“I hate you.” I whispered under my breath. “I have always hated you.”