There was a time in my life where I believed almost fully that America was the be all and end all of fast food. While it may be true that our neighbour to the South is the birthplace of the majority of globally recognized fast food chains, that doesn’t necessarily mean that the best greasy eats are produced there. Don’t get me wrong here, I can’t go more than a week without absolutely obliterating a 5 topping pizza (I essentially pay rent to Domino’s). That being said, one of my good friends recently opened up a whole new world of ill-advised gastronomical adventures for your humble blogger here, starting with the pictured monstrosity known in his native tongue as a pleshkavitza.

I was formally introduced to what amounted to the Romanian equivalent of an over-sized cheeseburger about a month back, while visiting with my good buddy Ayaf. A jolly, bearded man with a passion for noise music and cacti, Ayaf sells houses by day…and just keeps hustling by night because sleep is something reserved for the rich and/or dead. Somehow, the fine fella in question made time for his blogging amigo, so off we did drive in his zip-tied together Nissan Versa (more on that one later) to a small pizza shop on the outskirts of Kitchener. The place wasn’t exactly what one would call busy, but looked to be fairly popular, as its modern interior and gigantic menu would suggest. Ayaf seemed to be in regular contact with the owners, as the nice lady giving us his pre-order lowkey gave him hell for picking it up late.

An important bit of information to add: my man here had been hyping this sandwich up for weeks now, so I was pretty much expecting the poles to reverse at my first bite. So naturally, when the first thing I saw upon sitting down to eat was this…

…I was a wee bit underwhelmed. A simple shell of wax paper was to be the vehicle in which I was to be taken down the highway to Flavor Town? I was skeptical, until I looked up and saw my eating companion already midway done his near plate sized meal. The smell was truly enchanting, so in I dug.

I am aware that I have a habit of comparing food to a midsummer’s eve or what have you, but I guess I’m a pretty passionate kinda guy about what goes in my stomach. This sandwich took things to the NEXT LEVEL. The chicken, tender as a freshly punched face, melted in my mouth. Next came the Romanian garlic sauce, gently massaging my tongue, whispering sweet nothings in its tongue ears all the while. The rest of the toppings (cheese, assorted green things which I do not normally touch on their own) all got together and had an all out, call-the-cops level party in my mouth. Did I mention how freaking big this thing was? No lie, it was the size of a small dog. If said dog happened to be circular in nature. Bad analogy? Nope, I didn’t think so.

Somehow, this 11/10 eating experience was not enough for your skinny-fat narrator to be properly satisfied. I waddled my butt up to the counter to see what else I could cram down my gaping maw. Nothing really grabbed my attention, until I saw THIS FREAKING THING…

To this day, I still don’t quite know what it was. The dessert’s title was in Romanian, which was a slight problem for me in the reading comprehension department. Now, did I really care? No. No, I did not. For you see, when you come across a European pastry literally sweating honey, you really just got to go for it. Soft on the inside, perfectly crusted on the outside and sweeter than either one of your grandmas, the choice to eat this still haunts my dreams to this day. Another 11/10 culinary adventure to be sure.

 

If there’s one thing we can always count on with the cars we drive, it is that at a random unspecified point in its existence, it’s that the shi…uh…oil will hit the pan. Be it a 2019 Volvo or a 1995 GMC, every vehicle will break down eventually. Such an event happened to me this past summer, and oh boy, what an event it was. Buckle up, oh my audience, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. Welcome to my review of the Ford Freestyle, a rental car for people who like to flirt with Death…even though Death has a top speed of about 65 km/h in this case.

‘Twas the night before August, and all through the lot, every car each ran smoothly, except mine (which did not). All of a sudden, arose such a clatter. My transmission went -“CRUNCH POPPITY POP”, and I got madder and madder.

Something something Santa, blah blah No CAA Coverage, yadda yadda $900 dollar repair job, you know the song.

Amazing song analogy aside, my car was making terrifying noises which in turn prompted me to seek the help that only the oil-coated hands of a master mechanic could deliver. So, off to the countryside garage your intrepid narrator drove, praying to the God of Transmissions to grant him safe passage across the legendary valley known to some as the “Four Oh One”. Somehow, by some miracle, I made it. It was at that fateful moment in time that I was introduced to the vehicle which I would drive for the next two-ish days. Upon exiting the garage office almost a grand lighter, I hesitantly clicked my rental’s key FOB, and shuddered at what it activated.

Is it a car? An SUV, perhaps? No, surely it must be an aesthetically-cursed bus, squashed beyond recognition by several very fat schoolchildren? As it turns out, what I was staring at was in fact a Ford Freestyle. It was a crossover, one of the first models that the Ford Motor Company produced sometime in 2007. And oh my good goddamn was it ugly. With detailing accented with rust, and a front bumper that had clearly been replaced at least twice, this vehicle had might have been considered new and daring ten years ago, but looked like a criminal plodding slowly towards the electric chair now. I winced, sighed, and got into the driver’s seat.

The smell hit me before anything else. I felt, for a brief moment in time, that I was sitting in the middle of a barnyard. The Freestyle had clearly been used to haul some form of farm-related paraphernalia at some point in the not-to-distant past, the scent from which still lingered. Luckily enough, I have relatives who own a farm, so the smell was by and large nostalgic for me, as opposed to offending.

Driving the thing home was another matter entirely.

A one time inspection of the vehicle had me already a bit nervous, as the sidewall of the tires was sporting age/weather related cracks. When combined with the near baldness of the all-season tires, I was more than a little spooked. Things got worse when I got on the highway. With acceleration akin to a Windows 95 connecting to the internet, the Freestyle groaned into a barely acceptable highway speed of 70 km/h. Pushing it beyond this would result in a protest of thumps, clatters and sputters. This car wanted to die, for me to drive it into a median and send us both to Valhalla in a flaming blaze of glory. I had a mean craving for spaghetti, so the Freestyle was given no such honor.

Upon arriving home, I curiously glanced under the crossover, maybe to glimpse what was making such death rattles. The answer was rust. Oh, so very much rust. I wasn’t surprised, but all the same…flakes for days down there. It was at that moment when I figured out why those cracks where present in such numbers on the tires: this car probably hadn’t the structural integrity for any body work for years. As such, nothing had been taken off of or replaced, save maybe an oil change here and there. Yet, it was to be my ride to and from work for the next 48 hours, so I steeled myself to make the best of it.

As I am alive today to tell you this tale, you may correctly assume that the Freestyle made it back to the garage in one piece. I returned a month later for more car-related woes, but did not see the freakish vehicle hanging around. Perhaps it met its match at the hands of a semi-truck, or bottomed out when its pilot tried to reach a reasonable 100 km/h. Either way, I believe the Ford Freestyle went to the Great Parking Lot in the Sky, because in spite of being an absolute nightmare of a car, it probably meant well.

 

Good things come to those who wait. For the most part this is true, unless you happen to be waiting to pull the ripcord of your parachute as you drunkenly descend from an ill-advised skydiving session. Also, waiting to spit out a live wasp if one should happen to fly into your mouth whilst riding down the hill in your little red wagon. This too is a bad time to wait. Ultimately, the worst time to wait would be after reading my review on shawarma poutine and failing to “git you sum”, post-haste.

When I mention shawarma poutine to anyone, be they friends, family, classmates or otherwise, there are only ever two reactions which I have received: “OH MY GOD YES!” or “Wait what?”. Even my vegetarian/vegan friends tend to yield positive reactions at the mention of this greasy abomination. The fact is, this colossal culinary creation only seems to produce positive, albeit confused reactions. A high-speed collision of Arabic and French-Canadian food culture is certainly out of the ordinary, but will soon make its way into your hearts and minds (and arteries) as a new fast food favorite.

Created at some unspecified time, presumably somewhere in the deepest, darkest canola oil soaked pits of a Torontonian dive bar, shawarma poutine has captured the attention of Canada in recent years. As a resident of Kitchener, Ontario, my earliest memory of the food came about when it jumped out from a local shawarma joint’s menu. The fact that it combine what was, at the time, my two favorite foods of all time already put the food off to a good start in my eyes. My absolute enthusiasm on the matter convinced my friend Heff to also partake in the purchase of this unholy heart-stopper, so with cheap plastic forks at the ready, we tore into our food with all the decorum of a rabid mongoose at a cobra convention.

Important Details

The Taste

Oh hot damn, the taste. Similarly to most Canucks, I’m used to enjoying those soft, gooey mozzarella curds, steaming beef gravy and crispy fries with nothing else to challenge the holy trinity we know and love. But then, like getting t-boned by an ice-cream truck driver who, after his diagnosis of lactose intolerance and truly has nothing else to live for (we all know the feeling), the garlic sauce, fresh onions and grease-laden chicken hit the tip of my tongue. I may or may not have had time slow down on me for a few seconds. Heff, being the great friend he is, ignored me completely and continued setting a land-speed record for poutine consumption.

The Smell

A couple years ago, I got a wee bit of pneumonia and my sense of smell decided that it had been chilling in my body long enough. So, after getting in a very long and messy argument with my nose and kicking my tongue in its little tongue face, my sense of smell all but flew the coop. TL;DR- Smelling things is a challenge for me. That being said, the spice and grease combo of the shawarma poutine had no problems permeating my damaged nostrils, hugging the inside with an almost familiar scent. I was smitten.

The Look

(See Featured Image)…but with steam, and another fella with half of his already all around his mouth.

The Moral of This Review

Hell yes, this the absolute best. Real talk though, since discovering this gastric masterpiece, it has rocketed up the ladder of my go-to options when I have a hankering for that good grease, placing just ahead of tacos. You know you gotta try this stuff if it’s taco-beating levels of tasty.

Come one, come all! If it’s a tale driven by suspense, drama and madness, the likes of which make Hollywood movie producers drool, then oh boy, have I got a story for you! Okay, it’s actually an interview. Even so, this break from our regularly scheduled programming will no doubt put a smile on that wall of flesh between your brain and the outside world, or at least give your grey matter something to chew on. Now, concerning the interview at hand, I offer a warning: Let those who are easily put off by putrid puns, abstract anecdotes or needless alliteration avoid the heck out of this post, as it is just about bursting at the seems with the aforementioned content. To everyone else: Sit back, relax, and give me that (good) feedback!

A brief summary of my subject, Nashville. He is a truly unique individual, garrulous yet reserved. From obscure Japanese video gaming, to growing dad mustaches despite having no children, to wearing alien masks to work functions (simply because he can), Nashville is one of the most extraordinary, ordinary men. Today’s interview focuses on his five favorite slow cars, with pictures of the man himself with his most recent acquisition. My friends, I give you; Nashville!

Fast Food, Slow Cars (FFSC): Nashville! What a pleasure that we have the time to sit down and talk! As your co-worker, I know you to be the busy sort, so I’ll get straight to the point. Would you mind telling me about your early experience with slow cars and your love/hate relationship with them?

Nashville (N): No problem at all, I’m happy to chat for a bit. The first car I ever drove was a 1998 Ford Taurus. Even though it held some of my first driving memories, the experience was pretty forgettable. It had steering akin to that of a city bus, and the speed of one too. I did not enjoy this car.

FFSC: That’s too bad. First driving experiences should always be the warm and fuzzy sort of memorable. At least you didn’t have to drive a minivan, like your blogger friend here had to!

N: Actually, the second vehicle I drove was a minivan, a 2000 Mazda MPV. This too was the opposite of fast. At least this vehicle drove a little more like how it looked, which was again, bus-like. The handling was a little too squirrely for my tastes. It was a slow car, but not slow enough. It felt like it had too much pep. A little too much “umph”. I didn’t like all that low-end torque. I like a struggle when I accelerate.

FFSC: Interesting. I thought having to drive such slow cars in your young days would be a cause for boredom. It definitely would have been enough to…*ahem*…drive me crazy.

N: I’m going to ignore that pun, and instead tell you about the first car I both owned and drove daily. It was a 1992 Toyota Celica lift-back, in some weird shade of green. It was a fine vehicle, as well as a slow one. Exceptionally slow, mainly because I didn’t realize until a few years into my ownership of it that there was a button I could press, which would take the car out of fuel efficiency mode in order to make it accelerate faster. I used this once to get up a hill, then never touched that button again. One, because I like fuel efficiency and two, too much pep. If you can’t go fast, you can’t get in trouble, in theory. Even if I had sprung for the best model of that car, it would have been pushing just over 130 horsepower, maybe. It was slow, real slow. In fact, there’s this hill I encountered in the middle of Waterloo that I had legitimate trouble climbing. In the middle of a hot, dry summer.

FFSC: For such a slow car, you sure sound like you loved it. What made you get rid of it?

N: My best friend’s neighbour. They decided to back up forty feet, straight out their driveway and somehow t-boned my car. So that car became a write-off.

FFSC: Such a shame. What happened next?

N: Well, I went to the nearest used car dealership to meet a salesman named Bob. I went up to Bob and said my expertly-crafted sales pitch, that went a little something like this: “I have five thousand dollars. What do you have?” Bob happened to have a 2006 Pontiac Pursuit. It had minimal rust, and more horsepower than my Celica. It was previously owned by a smoker though, so it ended up smelling like cheap cigarettes no matter what I did. If I would drive over 120 on the highway, the engine would scream at me as if it were going to explode. A fun fact about this car is that it has over twice as many recorded deaths as any other car of a similar year and size. Aside from that, I thoroughly enjoyed this car.

FFSC: And that brings us to the final car, your current pride and joy. Tell me about your newest automotive protege.

N: After I started to actually take an interest in vehicles, I looked for another 1992 Toyota Celica, but none of the guys I got in contact with followed through with meeting up. After a bit too much effort, I finally settled on a 2007 Subaru Outback Sport. I drove all the way to Oshawa to buy it. It is the fastest car I’ve owned, sitting comfortably at about 178 horsepower, propelled through the streets by a 2.5 liter Boxer engine. It’s an old car now, so it’s not so fast, but that’s just the way I like it.

FFSC: Thanks for your time, Mr. Nashville, that was quite a story!

There you have it folks. A tale full of love, loss and lame engines. If ever there was another man with such a passion for slow cars, I challenge you to find him. I hope you’ve enjoyed this interview and have maybe even learned something along the way. This is T. McLellan, for Fast Food, Slow Cars, signing off!

Question of the Day: What is the slowest vehicle you’ve ever driven? Have you any feelings of affection towards it, or would you rather it be left to the scrap heap?

Shout Out, of course, to Derek Nash, for agreeing to be part of a an absolutely ridiculous interview.

 

Well, hello once again dedicated viewer, or salutations, one time visitor! Welcome to the page wherein all the commonly asked questions for my site are located. Please feel free to alert me to any that you, personally have.

Who are you?

My name is Tony McLellan. I am a proud, almost-college-graduate who works hard at both warehousing and writing odd reviews of culinary dishes and cars alike. I am 26 years old (almost) and a functional-ish member of society (my buddy Savon, circa five minutes ago).

What is the purpose of this site?

To entertain and inform. The amount of people in this world who know absolutely nothing about cars in general is astounding, so I aim to change that through a humorous educational process. I am almost too passionate about these machines, going to highly unnecessary lengths to promote the greatness (or ineptitude) of certain makes and models. This obsession of mine should help readers to form unique opinions on both the food and the cars I review.

Where are you located?

In my personal igloo of course, hiding somewhere in the frigged lands of Canada (Ontario to be specific). Contrary to what party poopers would have you believe, I do ride bobsleds and/or polar bears to school. And yes, we also use maple syrup and hockey pucks as currency. This is an undisputed fact.

When will you produce new content?

Life allowing, I would like to create at least one new article a month, maybe bi-weekly if work eases up on me. Creating content is challenging after eight hours chucking 20 kilo bags of bird seed around, but rest assured, I will do my best to keep bringing my readers the absolute pinnacle of car/food related entertainment.

Why did you think writing about horrible cars and greasy food was a good idea?

Short answer: Because not many people will dedicate their time towards covering the life and times of Pontiac Azteks or Pizza Pockets. I like to think I’m providing a humorous, entertaining spin on vehicles and consumables that many people automatically disregard without a second thought. It’s both a challenge and a reward in itself. As long as there are undervalued greasy eats and rusted-out beaters to write about, so too shall I continue chronicling their existences.

The early portion of the year 2000 was a tumultuous time to be alive in America. The Good- Y2K’s lack of tech-based apocalypse lets human-kind breathe a collective sigh of relief, a pack of bacon is $2.97 and the Real Slim Shady finally musters up the courage to stand up.  The Bad- 300 gallons of black sludge “accidentally” finds its way into the Mississippi River, a 17 square mile hole practically obliterates the Ozone layer over Antarctica, and a Bush is planted in the White House. Somehow, the damned thing goes untrimmed for over 8 years, spreading leaves and humanitarian disasters everywhere. The Ugly- General Motors green-lights the release of the Pontiac Aztek, automotive fever dream which will go on to be known by many as one of history’s top five worst designed cars, period.

What the Heck, Aztek?

As a car (or crossover, for you technical Tommy’s out there), the Aztek concept vehicle was introduced to the world at the Detroit Auto show in 1999. Initially marketed towards a young, hip, on-the-go audience, this early iteration un-ironically used the phrase “Xtreme” as a marketing strategy. To any sane individual, this alone should have been a warning sign.  In spite of what that year’s presidential election would have you believe, a surprisingly large number of potential Aztek buyers had their wits about them. Many took one look at what, to this blogger, appeared to be an unholy union between a falcon and a toaster, put the peddle to the metal and sped off to NOPE-ville. Naturally, this lead to GM coming up just a wee bit short of their intended sales quota. How short, you might ask? Well, about as short as a bar stool at a ladder convention. Simply put, GM needed to sell about 75,000 vehicles each year to break even. They sold 27,322 units in the first year of general production, with that number declining noticeably for almost every subsequent year. Somewhere, somehow, somebody ****ed up.

Blue, Fictitious Meth (And How It Brought Back the Aztek)

By 2008, it seemed the Aztek was slated to be a forgotten relic of the past, like JNCOS, flip phones or Phish. All that changed on the 20th of January, when Walter White (a.k.a Heisenburg a.k.a Malcolm’s Dad) was spotted using the crossover as his daily commuter car in the hit T.V. series Breaking Bad. Just like that, millennials caught a case of Aztek fever. Was it the car’s uncanny resemblance to a thrift shop sweater, its low price point, or it being the choice vehicle of “The One Who Knocks” that caused the Aztek to attain a level of glory not seen since its debut in 1999? What we know for certain is that in 2010, Edmunds reported over one third of Aztek buyers to be in the 18-34 year age range, a stark contrast to the vehicle’s consumer base in the early 2000’s.

High-Tech, For an Aztek

The Aztek was produced officially from 2000 to 2005, living out its five years on planet earth much like a remarkably ugly, yet surprisingly versatile individual. Yes, even though I have made it abundantly clear that I detest the crossover for numerous reasons, from its post-crash aesthetics, sluggish handling and a spoiler which messes with rear window visibility, I must admit the Aztek had some pretty cool features. Spend about 200 bucks on additional gear, and you have yourself a small SUV that would make a Swiss Army knife blush. The crossover has room for days, can hold up to 400 pounds worth of gear within its many nooks and crannies, has a pull-out cargo ramp and a removable center console which doubles as a drink cooler. If it weren’t for how horrible this thing was to drive, I might actually be swayed by a list like this. Yes I drove one, more on that later. As was stated earlier, the Aztek became less and less popular with the consumer audience at large, selling just over five thousand units in its final year of production. With all this said and done, I might start to feel kind of bad for further ripping on “The World’s Ugliest Car”. See the text below for a plethora of reasons I do not.

An Aztek Experience

As part of my day job, I work on cars, changing tires and oil. At the time, I was at the apex of my Breaking Bad obsession and as such, would regularly geek out about any of the show’s vehicle models entering the shop. We only ever had one Aztek in my memory, I’ll never forget it. It was a rainy fall afternoon, so the sickeningly bright yellow-on-black plastic aesthetic of the later model Aztek was clearly visible as I approached the parked vehicle to take it inside for its winter tire swap. The interior felt cheap, oddly shaped plastic molds covering much of the car’s interior. With well over 250,000 kilometers on it, the crossover woke up with all the enthusiasm of a hung over English major on exam day. As I drove it through the bay doors, it ran surprisingly well, its all-wheel drive traction gripping the pavement in spite of the rain. The interior was spacious and quite possibly lived-in, as the multitude of food wrappers, clothes and various electronics suggested. Rust caked the bottom of the car, a stark contrast to the smooth yellow paint which had held up surprisingly well in the car’s many years on Earth. Old tires came off, and new ones on, mostly without a hitch. Driving the Aztek back out into the torrential downpour, I tried to envision what was going through the fictitious meth lord’s head when he made this car his daily driver. I mean, I guess more product could be bought with all the cash he saved on the initial purchase?

The Bottom Line: Get Wrecked, Aztek

If budget camping without any real style, durability or fuel economy sounds like your thing, then the Pontiac Aztek might just be the car for you. I guess a plus side of bringing the thing out into the wilderness is that bears will probably mistake it for some sort of neon alpha predator and may keep their distance. That, and no one will rob your campsite, as they’ll be too busy pitying your personal style and lack of funds. I think it’s safe to say the rest of us will stick with our Honda’s, Toyota’s and bicycle options when looking for non-atrocious street and all-terrain vehicles.

References

Dodge Magnum Scores Highest with Millennials on Used Car Market, Says Edmunds.com. Edmunds. (2015, September 9). Retrieved from https://www.edmunds.com/about/press/dodge-magnum-scores-highest-with-millennials-on-used-car-market-says-edmundscom.html

Pearson, S. (n.d.). Cost of living 2000. The People History. Retrieved from http://www.thepeoplehistory.com/1958.html

Pontiac Aztek gets top honors as the worst vehicle ever sold. (2012, February 19). Los Angeles Times. Retrieved from https://www.toledoblade.com/Automotive/2012/02/19/Pontiac-Aztek-gets-top-honors-as-the-worst-vehicle-ever-sold.html

Ronson, J. (2015, September 11). Kids Are Buying Up Pontiac Azteks Because ‘Breaking Bad’ and Walter White. Inverse. Retrieved from https://www.inverse.com/article/6092-kids-are-buying-up-pontiac-azteks-because-breaking-bad-and-walter-white

A Special Shout Out to AMC’s Breaking Bad, General Motors, and that guy whose Aztek I briefly drove.

 

If you asked yourself, “Wait, what? No seriously…What?” on your arrival unto this blog, then statistically, you’re probably not alone. I have yet to take an actual tally of utterly confused reactions triggered by this here collection of verbal deluges, but like Walmart McDonald’s and most mid-2000’s American sedans, there are probably loads. I should also mention that I am in no way a professional food critic/automotive expert, so if anything I say sounds like life advice or a technical analysis, please check your facts, kids. I hope in any case that this collection of stories, reviews, pictures and totally legitimate quotations serves to entertain, because laughter is the best medicine, right after 40% reduced headache medication and Flinstones Multi-Vitamins (let’s be real here, we all LOVED those things). Expect bi-weekly blog postings about the worst the world has to offer concerning all things car and food related. Prepare yourself, we’re about to lose power steering and do 90 into a ditch of boundless entertainment!

“Vrrrrrr-clunkclunkittttyclunk-SCREEEEECH-CRUNCH-SHPLORTTT~Any Given Dodge Caliber Bottoming Out, Sound of Value Meal Hitting Windshield.