Is the food good in hell?

Logan McMillan

When I walked down a murky red staircase, underneath a chandelier of razor sharp knives, I knew I was about to have an interesting experience. When the lo-fi gospel music began to blare over the loud speakers, it was getting weird. Then a beautiful woman in a pink velvet wedding dress brought me to my table. I was in Hell’s Kitchen.

I glided my hand over the blood red table at which we sat; everyone looked so friendly. I placed the paper napkin on my lap and gazed up at the wall, pondering the engrossing artwork. I peered around the room and realized that it hung everywhere. If you could paint out a nightmare in exquisite detail, chances are that Hell’s Kitchen would buy some of your stuff.

The overly-tattooed waitress brought us some menus; I pried one open and gazed at all of the options I had to choose from. Fortunately, none of the dishes bore terrible pun names like “Sinfully Delicious Eggs Benedict” or “Satanic Spicy Ham.”

After a few seconds of contemplating, I chose the Huevos Rancheros; it seemed like something that would be good there. I was right. The egg mash represented the perfect amalgamation of spicy, sweet, and salty. The beans were phenomenal, and although it was the middle of January, the fruit tasted fresh. If this is what the food in hell is like, it might be the time to start sinning.

I have never devoured food quite so voraciously; its deliciousness brought out the worst in me. For the first time since I was a toddler, I placed my arm around the plate territorially. No one was about to take or interfere with my consumption. It pained me to see the waitress take my plate away, but what she brought back rekindled my spirits: A dessert menu.

After a few minutes of mulling over my options, I decided to go with the “Nefarious Mystery Desert.” The waitress isn’t allowed to tell you what it is until she brings it to you. All she told me was “don’t worry.” I wasn’t concerned until she said that.

Unfortunately, chances are that you won’t be able to eat the same delicious chocolate with spiced custard pastry that I so selfishly inhaled. This is because the “Nefarious Mystery Desert” changes multiple times during between breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You rarely see the same one twice. Hopefully if you plan out your trip right, you might be able to devour the same delicious sweet that I did.

All of this sinful food and drink inevitably led to one thing: A trip to the restroom. The corridor leading to it has a dead tree affixed from floor to ceiling, with multiple stuffed crows glaring down with their beady little eyes. I could tell this was going to be memorable.

I pulled open the heavy door and was greeted with one of the cleanest bathrooms I’ve ever seen. Red evil-looking fixtures hung in random succession throughout the room which was predominantly covered with shiny black marble.

As I turned away from the urinal I saw something that would’ve scared the pee right back out of me. The pictures on the wall were changing. They started out as cute little babies, but they quickly changed to eviscerated zombies if you took a few steps to the left or right. I drudged over to the sink and splashed some water in my face, but when I stood up straight I noticed something even more strange. There are mustaches painted on the mirrors in-front of the sink. I lined myself up just right, and I was suddenly transformed into a villain from the silent movie era.

How boring it is to urinate anywhere else now.

I carried myself back out of hell through the red chambers, up the metal stairs, underneath the deadly chandelier, and back up to heaven. I have never been to a restaurant where both the atmosphere and the food compete to outshine each other. When I look back on my experience I simply debate in my mind which was better. If you’re ever in downtown on a Sunday morning and are looking for some spicy eggs, go to hell…the kitchen that is.