breakfast time at the hipster cafe

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Kthulhu5000: by R. Guyovich

HotSoapyBeard posted:

Can't wait to tuck into this bowl of imported pour-over cheerios. The grains used to make the cereal were eaten then pooped out by a cat in Burma.

You mean a cat down the block. Source-to-table, man, gotta check that mile count.

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# ? Sep 14, 2017 03:45

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# ? May 16, 2024 18:11

Baller Ina: :whattheeucharist:

Cornhole seats

Cornhole tables

Pay by playing cornhole

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# ? Sep 14, 2017 13:31

Meeksha: i did it all for the nookie
Ask me how!
-freb dust

when you order the 'soup and sandwich' lunch item, the soup served by being soaked into sandwich bread. the only sandwich they offer is the 'classic potato club.' the meal served on a live, organic chicken. who has a hand-crafted plate adhered to its back by100% GMO-free, craft glue. it pairs wonderfully with a bottle of "21-Gender Chianti."

-----

come on and slam and welcome to the jam

Thank you Heather Papps for the summer sig!

# ? Sep 14, 2017 17:53

Kthulhu5000: by R. Guyovich

Everything is served in the center of a pair of denim cutoffs. There are leggings on the chair legs.

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# ? Sep 15, 2017 04:35

sebmojo: Legit Cyberpunk

Kthulhu5000 posted:

Its menu is free-range high pH "green yolk" organic eggs, heart-shaped hash browns made from fair-wage "kissed earth" techno-Amish farmed blood potatoes, and gently threatened farm-to-table bacon like every other boutique cafe in Portland. But the waiter has his KuroNippon-dyed hair slicked back with vazza, Coke bottle glasses with lenses ground from the actual bottoms of green Coke bottles, a pimple ring on his nose, an open vest like that of the titular character in Disney's 1992 Aladdin, and a narrow little pubic trail crawling out of the waist of his "upsized" children's Sesame Street denim jeans from the 1970s.

Oh, and his long and wispy rat-tail beard is trailing through the store-brand catsup on your hash browns, while his bronze "Weyland Iowa High School 1991 Wrestling Regionals" medal around his neck repeatedly smacks your spouse in the face as he's refilling your Ceylon-blown glasses with Cl-treated Bull Mountain agua de grifo.

the roof of the cafe was the color of a television turned to a channel about roofs

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# ? Sep 15, 2017 04:38

Meeksha: i did it all for the nookie
Ask me how!
-freb dust

Breakfast is served in a baked pinata which can only be opened by discussing Franz Kafka.

-----

come on and slam and welcome to the jam

Thank you Heather Papps for the summer sig!

# ? Sep 15, 2017 04:54

Adiabatic: What have you assholes done now?

i order a pbr for breakfast and look around me to see if anyone noticed

# ? Sep 15, 2017 05:07

Kthulhu5000: by R. Guyovich

sebmojo posted:

the roof of the cafe was the color of a television turned to a channel about roofs

feelin' pretty honored here, no lying.

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# ? Sep 15, 2017 06:38

Kthulhu5000: by R. Guyovich

Your waitress is wearing an animal ear knit cap of a baboon's gaping and fanged maw, atop a bobbed cut streaked with KuroAoi dye. She has no eyewear on, but her eyes are rimmed all around in a circle with "mascara" that you're sure is actually ashes from the kitchen oven. She has two brass studs shining out through her ash mascara right below her left eye, along with a Nepali paisa coin from 1981 hammered into the bridge of her nose. Her face is otherwise unmodified, except for the absolute faintest wisp of a goatee beard on her chin. The fruit of hours of dedicated encouragement and teasing out, no doubt.

She is wearing a jacket made from a 1960s Albanian tapestry of an organ grinder and his monkey, which is atop a crimson redyed pre-faded tee shirt. She being ahead of the curve, there's an unsettling round bulge in her tee, around the area where her exposed navel would otherwise be. There is decidedly nothing peeking out from the waist of her yellow canary pattern miniskirt, made from one of the couch throw pillows she stole from her grandma's house. This is accessorizing her wasabi green leggings, patterned with a lobster emoji font only found on a specific model of 1998-era Japanese cell phone.

Her feet are clad in thin red wood discs made from red maple stained redder with unfair trade Bolivian fruit punch drink powder, with the bark still rimming it all. These are attached to her feet with the surplus discarded steerpulling rope from slaughterhouses, making an ironic and contradicting statement. She has somehow talked you into the salsa cupcakes with ranch dressing frosting, flash steambaked in cane aether.

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# ? Sep 15, 2017 07:42

Slugnoid

the table sugar is still in the cane and there's a guy in the kitchen arguing with the fire marshall

# ? Sep 15, 2017 10:54

Manifisto

there is no ordering. when the server deigns to notice you you are served a plate of twigs, a bowl of hot water, a jar of agave nectar, and a house made hot sauce that contains locally sourced nettles.

you will be judged by what you do with these items. everyone in fact is furtively looking around trying to figure out how to eat or drink this meal, if indeed it is meant to be ingested at all. one guy with a mullet tries steeping his twigs in the hot water, flavoring it with the agave, then drinking it like a tea. it tastes awful and everybody around him is rolling their eyes but he is committed, he is going to choke down that twig water if it kills him. a lesbian couple is eating the twigs with the hot sauce, creating loud crunching and snapping sounds and whimpering quietly as splinters work their way into their gums. a young gentleman with maori tattoos has soaked the twigs and is trying to mash them into a slightly softened vegetal mat, which he chews endlessly, seasoned with the tamari soy sauce he insisted that the server bring. a suburban soccer mom tries to send her twigs back and is laughed out of the cafe. at last, everyone thinks, breakfast.

# ? Sep 15, 2017 23:03

UWBW: Permanently banned from the Alamo

"Excuse me, waitress?" I ask, my hand in the air like an embarrassed schoolboy asking to use the lavatory.

She turns, scoffing at me, saying nothing. Her eyes are a sea of judgement with one hand pressing down on the scales, cheating me of any chance I ever had to not look like a fool.

"I don't-" I start to say, but I falter. How can I approach this without losing my cred?

"I... I don't understand how to eat this," I mutter, with my head held low.

Trap sprung, a wicked smile draws across her face, red lips ensnaring her perfect teeth like the roots of an old tree poking its way around a fence. I feel my face flush.

"You don't... understand?"

She voiced it like a question, but it was more like a declaration of victory. A trumpet blast over the battlefield to show any and all who were there to witness the site of my disembowelment that I had utterly and completely been destroyed.

"It's a deconstructed hotdog, what's not to get?"

She cocks her head to one side, sinister grin widening.

I look back at my plate. Bread sits alone, piled high like a burial cairn, my fragile self worth trapped inside. An effluvient mold of sausage and gelatin lies next to it, a testament to man's folly. Pickles on a block of ice; I imagine them floating out to sea, alone, fated to perish on their own in the cold or starvation. A red mount; a yellow mound. Bubbles have been run through this ketchup, it seems, creating a sickly thick foam the color of dried blood. The snot-yellow mustard next to it has seen better days.

I hang my head in shame as the waitress laughs. Her laugh grows louder, louder. I can take it no more; I grab a piece of bread and dash it into the ketchup, combine it with a pickle, and rub it on the weiner-aspic. Hand unsteady, I raise my trembling amalgamation of food to my face and take a bite.

I scream, and everything goes black. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is the sound of the waitress cackling.

Thanks to Manifisto for the sig, and Koishi for the last one. TVsVeryOwn made the CyberMike.

# ? Sep 15, 2017 23:59

wearing a lampshade

i sound out the name again.

"Bean Arthur."

I shake my head - nope, still don't get it.

# ? Sep 16, 2017 00:02

Macnult

UWBW posted:

"Excuse me, waitress?" I ask, my hand in the air like an embarrassed schoolboy asking to use the lavatory.

She turns, scoffing at me, saying nothing. Her eyes are a sea of judgement with one hand pressing down on the scales, cheating me of any chance I ever had to not look like a fool.

"I don't-" I start to say, but I falter. How can I approach this without losing my cred?

"I... I don't understand how to eat this," I mutter, with my head held low.

Trap sprung, a wicked smile draws across her face, red lips ensnaring her perfect teeth like the roots of an old tree poking its way around a fence. I feel my face flush.

"You don't... understand?"

She voiced it like a question, but it was more like a declaration of victory. A trumpet blast over the battlefield to show any and all who were there to witness the site of my disembowelment that I had utterly and completely been destroyed.

"It's a deconstructed hotdog, what's not to get?"

She cocks her head to one side, sinister grin widening.

I look back at my plate. Bread sits alone, piled high like a burial cairn, my fragile self worth trapped inside. An effluvient mold of sausage and gelatin lies next to it, a testament to man's folly. Pickles on a block of ice; I imagine them floating out to sea, alone, fated to perish on their own in the cold or starvation. A red mount; a yellow mound. Bubbles have been run through this ketchup, it seems, creating a sickly thick foam the color of dried blood. The snot-yellow mustard next to it has seen better days.

I hang my head in shame as the waitress laughs. Her laugh grows louder, louder. I can take it no more; I grab a piece of bread and dash it into the ketchup, combine it with a pickle, and rub it on the weiner-aspic. Hand unsteady, I raise my trembling amalgamation of food to my face and take a bite.

I scream, and everything goes black. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is the sound of the waitress cackling.

# ? Sep 16, 2017 17:00

alnilam

UWBW posted:

"Excuse me, waitress?" I ask, my hand in the air like an embarrassed schoolboy asking to use the lavatory.

She turns, scoffing at me, saying nothing. Her eyes are a sea of judgement with one hand pressing down on the scales, cheating me of any chance I ever had to not look like a fool.

"I don't-" I start to say, but I falter. How can I approach this without losing my cred?

"I... I don't understand how to eat this," I mutter, with my head held low.

Trap sprung, a wicked smile draws across her face, red lips ensnaring her perfect teeth like the roots of an old tree poking its way around a fence. I feel my face flush.

"You don't... understand?"

She voiced it like a question, but it was more like a declaration of victory. A trumpet blast over the battlefield to show any and all who were there to witness the site of my disembowelment that I had utterly and completely been destroyed.

"It's a deconstructed hotdog, what's not to get?"

She cocks her head to one side, sinister grin widening.

I look back at my plate. Bread sits alone, piled high like a burial cairn, my fragile self worth trapped inside. An effluvient mold of sausage and gelatin lies next to it, a testament to man's folly. Pickles on a block of ice; I imagine them floating out to sea, alone, fated to perish on their own in the cold or starvation. A red mount; a yellow mound. Bubbles have been run through this ketchup, it seems, creating a sickly thick foam the color of dried blood. The snot-yellow mustard next to it has seen better days.

I hang my head in shame as the waitress laughs. Her laugh grows louder, louder. I can take it no more; I grab a piece of bread and dash it into the ketchup, combine it with a pickle, and rub it on the weiner-aspic. Hand unsteady, I raise my trembling amalgamation of food to my face and take a bite.

I scream, and everything goes black. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is the sound of the waitress cackling.

# ? Sep 16, 2017 17:27

Pot Smoke Phoenix: Smoke 'em if you gottem!

UWBW posted:

"Excuse me, waitress?" I ask, my hand in the air like an embarrassed schoolboy asking to use the lavatory.

She turns, scoffing at me, saying nothing. Her eyes are a sea of judgement with one hand pressing down on the scales, cheating me of any chance I ever had to not look like a fool.

"I don't-" I start to say, but I falter. How can I approach this without losing my cred?

"I... I don't understand how to eat this," I mutter, with my head held low.

Trap sprung, a wicked smile draws across her face, red lips ensnaring her perfect teeth like the roots of an old tree poking its way around a fence. I feel my face flush.

"You don't... understand?"

She voiced it like a question, but it was more like a declaration of victory. A trumpet blast over the battlefield to show any and all who were there to witness the site of my disembowelment that I had utterly and completely been destroyed.

"It's a deconstructed hotdog, what's not to get?"

She cocks her head to one side, sinister grin widening.

I look back at my plate. Bread sits alone, piled high like a burial cairn, my fragile self worth trapped inside. An effluvient mold of sausage and gelatin lies next to it, a testament to man's folly. Pickles on a block of ice; I imagine them floating out to sea, alone, fated to perish on their own in the cold or starvation. A red mount; a yellow mound. Bubbles have been run through this ketchup, it seems, creating a sickly thick foam the color of dried blood. The snot-yellow mustard next to it has seen better days.

I hang my head in shame as the waitress laughs. Her laugh grows louder, louder. I can take it no more; I grab a piece of bread and dash it into the ketchup, combine it with a pickle, and rub it on the weiner-aspic. Hand unsteady, I raise my trembling amalgamation of food to my face and take a bite.

I scream, and everything goes black. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is the sound of the waitress cackling.

https://i.imgur.com/QKTkerO.mp4
_{_{Sig elements by Manifisto and Heather Papps}}
Sig File protected by SigLock. do NOT steal this sig!

# ? Sep 16, 2017 17:55

Slugnoid

UWBW posted:

"Excuse me, waitress?" I ask, my hand in the air like an embarrassed schoolboy asking to use the lavatory.

She turns, scoffing at me, saying nothing. Her eyes are a sea of judgement with one hand pressing down on the scales, cheating me of any chance I ever had to not look like a fool.

"I don't-" I start to say, but I falter. How can I approach this without losing my cred?

"I... I don't understand how to eat this," I mutter, with my head held low.

Trap sprung, a wicked smile draws across her face, red lips ensnaring her perfect teeth like the roots of an old tree poking its way around a fence. I feel my face flush.

"You don't... understand?"

She voiced it like a question, but it was more like a declaration of victory. A trumpet blast over the battlefield to show any and all who were there to witness the site of my disembowelment that I had utterly and completely been destroyed.

"It's a deconstructed hotdog, what's not to get?"

She cocks her head to one side, sinister grin widening.

I look back at my plate. Bread sits alone, piled high like a burial cairn, my fragile self worth trapped inside. An effluvient mold of sausage and gelatin lies next to it, a testament to man's folly. Pickles on a block of ice; I imagine them floating out to sea, alone, fated to perish on their own in the cold or starvation. A red mount; a yellow mound. Bubbles have been run through this ketchup, it seems, creating a sickly thick foam the color of dried blood. The snot-yellow mustard next to it has seen better days.

I hang my head in shame as the waitress laughs. Her laugh grows louder, louder. I can take it no more; I grab a piece of bread and dash it into the ketchup, combine it with a pickle, and rub it on the weiner-aspic. Hand unsteady, I raise my trembling amalgamation of food to my face and take a bite.

I scream, and everything goes black. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is the sound of the waitress cackling.

# ? Sep 16, 2017 23:41

cis_eraser_420

breakfast? what is this, 1999? I'm eating pre-lunch here thank you very much

# ? Sep 18, 2017 01:09

canyoneer: I only have canyoneyes for you

I order the only thing on the menu I recognize, what I expect is a huge plate of eggs and chorizo for $13.
but is actually just a single hard-boiled brown egg and a few slices of the weird, Spanish-style cured hard chorizo sausage.

# ? Sep 24, 2017 06:57

Macnult

"I know it's 2:30 pm and you close in half an hour but are you still serving breakfast?"

"Yes we are! Breakfast always served starting at 2:00."

"2:00? What about when you guys open at 11:00?"

"I mean if you're up that early most people just make it at home"

# ? Sep 26, 2017 05:57

pork steaks: a lovely boy

hello I would like to order the idea of a pancake

# ? Sep 26, 2017 06:02

Bacon Taco: Now with extra narwhal meat!
HAIKOOLIGAN

A side door leads to a coin-op laundry so you can get a head start on the day's chores while eating free-range turkey ham

# ? Sep 26, 2017 06:40

Twenty Four

Bacon Taco posted:

A side door leads to a coin-op laundry so you can get a head start on the day's chores while eating free-range turkey ham

co-op coin-op

# ? Sep 26, 2017 11:45

kalel

pork steaks posted:

hello I would like to order the idea of a pancake

# ? Sep 26, 2017 14:45

kalel

their bison burger is pretty good, don't know why it's a breakfast-exclusive menu item though

# ? Sep 26, 2017 14:47

Meeksha: i did it all for the nookie
Ask me how!
-freb dust

They serve bacon tacos and pork steaks (:

-----

come on and slam and welcome to the jam

Thank you Heather Papps for the summer sig!

# ? Sep 26, 2017 18:02

UWBW: Permanently banned from the Alamo

Half the words on the menu are in trendy faux-French, which I don't understand, so I just order something called "On the Rocks".

My dish arrives. It turns out it's a thick soup, piping hot. I poke around with my spoon and fish out... a rock.

"Erm, excuse me," I say to the waitress as politely as I can, "there's a rock in my soup."

The waitress smiles impatiently.

"Yes," she says, "Well, that's kind of the point isn't it? You know, it's on the rocks, man!" She smiles a plastic smile, clearly waiting for my line of questioning to finish.

"But," I say, "I can't eat this!"

"Yes," she agrees, and walks away.

The presentation is pretty good, though.

Thanks to Manifisto for the sig, and Koishi for the last one. TVsVeryOwn made the CyberMike.

# ? Sep 26, 2017 20:16

alnilam

After years of making fun of it, I ordered breakfast at the hipster cafe today, and... well, I'm not sure how to say this, but, it was... really good?? So I took a deep look at the menu, I mean a really good look, I made a point to take off my lens of ridicule and take a look and say "what is this food though, really," and realized that it was all actually just well-thought-out dishes made of good ingredients. The people serving me were not ironic, they were genuine and nice people. The chefs were regular people, good cooks, who cared a lot about good food. I began to think... maybe the one not being honest with themself, was me. Now I'm just not sure what to make of my life anymore. I've been writing this blog making fun of hipsters for 3 years. My satirical "Hipsterdom 101" book (where the 101 is stylized to also look like an LOL) has sold over a million copies and paid my kid's way through college. And yet here I am unable to put into words what on earth makes this cafe worthy of disparaging. I can't even explain why I ever labelled it as "hipster." Is a hipster really a person with tattoos and flannel and a trucker hat? Because those specific fashion items were not even to be found in this cafe. Or is a "hipster" just a person who is more intentional about things than I am, to the point that it makes me feel insecure? Would these people call themselves hipster, or would are there other cafes that they would call hipster, or is it all just bullshit?

I need to go lie down.

_{ty manifisto}

# ? Sep 26, 2017 20:59

Macnult

alnilam posted:

After years of making fun of it, I ordered breakfast at the hipster cafe today, and... well, I'm not sure how to say this, but, it was... really good?? So I took a deep look at the menu, I mean a really good look, I made a point to take off my lens of ridicule and take a look and say "what is this food though, really," and realized that it was all actually just well-thought-out dishes made of good ingredients. The people serving me were not ironic, they were genuine and nice people. The chefs were regular people, good cooks, who cared a lot about good food. I began to think... maybe the one not being honest with themself, was me. Now I'm just not sure what to make of my life anymore. I've been writing this blog making fun of hipsters for 3 years. My satirical "Hipsterdom 101" book (where the 101 is stylized to also look like an LOL) has sold over a million copies and paid my kid's way through college. And yet here I am unable to put into words what on earth makes this cafe worthy of disparaging. I can't even explain why I ever labelled it as "hipster." Is a hipster really a person with tattoos and flannel and a trucker hat? Because those specific fashion items were not even to be found in this cafe. Or is a "hipster" just a person who is more intentional about things than I am, to the point that it makes me feel insecure? Would these people call themselves hipster, or would are there other cafes that they would call hipster, or is it all just bullshit?

I need to go lie down.

He then went on to write for VICE

# ? Sep 26, 2017 21:03

canyoneer: I only have canyoneyes for you

the quail egg and scallop omelette was pretty good, but i'm still pretty hungry so i'll probably go through a mcdonalds drive thru on the way to work

# ? Sep 26, 2017 22:17

Bacon Taco: Now with extra narwhal meat!
HAIKOOLIGAN

Meeksha posted:

They serve bacon tacos

Clearly hipsters have good taste.

# ? Sep 26, 2017 22:46

kalel

alnilam posted:

After years of making fun of it, I ordered breakfast at the hipster cafe today, and... well, I'm not sure how to say this, but, it was... really good?? So I took a deep look at the menu, I mean a really good look, I made a point to take off my lens of ridicule and take a look and say "what is this food though, really," and realized that it was all actually just well-thought-out dishes made of good ingredients. The people serving me were not ironic, they were genuine and nice people. The chefs were regular people, good cooks, who cared a lot about good food. I began to think... maybe the one not being honest with themself, was me. Now I'm just not sure what to make of my life anymore. I've been writing this blog making fun of hipsters for 3 years. My satirical "Hipsterdom 101" book (where the 101 is stylized to also look like an LOL) has sold over a million copies and paid my kid's way through college. And yet here I am unable to put into words what on earth makes this cafe worthy of disparaging. I can't even explain why I ever labelled it as "hipster." Is a hipster really a person with tattoos and flannel and a trucker hat? Because those specific fashion items were not even to be found in this cafe. Or is a "hipster" just a person who is more intentional about things than I am, to the point that it makes me feel insecure? Would these people call themselves hipster, or would are there other cafes that they would call hipster, or is it all just bullshit?

I need to go lie down.

# ? Sep 26, 2017 23:20

Meeksha: i did it all for the nookie
Ask me how!
-freb dust

The post-beef steakwave platter is actually just an old-timey, sepia photo of a cow dressed as a bartender

-----

come on and slam and welcome to the jam

Thank you Heather Papps for the summer sig!

# ? Sep 28, 2017 18:51

UWBW: Permanently banned from the Alamo

"No," she said, "you're supposed to eat the parsley."

# ? Sep 28, 2017 23:23

Sprue: please send nudes

it's an ironic diner, the menu is ironicly diner-esque, you can order pancake and eggs or whatever (the pancakes are made from boxed mix and the eggs are not organic) in fact nothing is organic and absolutely everything is GM even the napkins. the waitresses wear ironic little aprons and it's called something ridiculous like "henry's corner diner". they won't serve the coffee until it's been sitting in a carafe for at least two hours. you might not even realize you're in a hipster cafe until you realize that the omelette you ordered was $16.30.

# ? Sep 29, 2017 02:34

Business Gorillas

oh, this? we call this selection "hard-boiled egg". think of it as an heirloom chicken prepared in a sort of hot pot, but instead of a sichuan or cold-pressed olive oil, we just use water

# ? Sep 29, 2017 04:31

sebmojo: Legit Cyberpunk

Meeksha posted:

The post-beef steakwave platter is actually just an old-timey, sepia photo of a cow dressed as a bartender

# ? Sep 29, 2017 05:15

Kthulhu5000: by R. Guyovich

The special of the day is the "Hot Cut". It's one tomato smashed flat, with feta cheese cubes smashed flat on top of it, followed by a poached egg (already kind of flat), smashed flat on top of everything else. There is no seasoning apparent, and it is all served on a thrift store find Wayne Newton vinyl LP. You can't keep the LP, not that you would want to with all the food juices in the grooves and slowly spilling out from the center and onto the table.

The side is strips of "toasted" Wonder bread, poking out from a beaker of liquid nitrogen. There is no coffee, milk, or OJ, but you can choose to have either a can of novelty chile soda from the Hatch Chile Festival, or "hair trade" seaweed and garlic kvass. You're trying to muster up the courage to give any of this a try; you see your date shoveling and swallowing it down, all happily and hungrily.

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# ? Sep 30, 2017 01:18

Gone Fashing: KEEP POSTIN
I'M STILL LAFFIN

sebmojo posted:

# ? Oct 1, 2017 00:09

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# ? May 16, 2024 18:11

Kthulhu5000: by R. Guyovich

You walk in to this lil' popup, ask 'em, what's the coolest dish you got? And they bring out a really great-looking Super Nintendo made out of blueberry waffles and pancakes, and you say, wow, I'll have that! And they say "You already did!" and take it back to the kitchen.

To "pay", you just have to jingle some coins in your hands. All you've got is an old Mercury's head dime you found in your change. As you bounce it around in your palm, with it making no noise at all, you see the stuff begin to make anxious, sidelong glances at each other.

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This thread brought to you by a tremendous dickhead!

# ? Oct 1, 2017 06:38

The Something Awful Forums > Main > BYOB: BYOB BYOB BOYB BBOY YOBB YBOB BBYO?? > breakfast time at the hipster cafe

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