Is there anything better than a grilled cheese? That crisp, butter-soaked bread, the gooey, stretchy cheese, the divine pairing of a cup of tomato soup that’s just right for dunkin’. No, there is nothing better than a grilled cheese, and we should know.
We have made the perfect grilled cheese, and in a cruel twist of fate, after that experience, everything else in the universe fucking sucks.
We no longer know joy. We do not know happiness. Speak to us not of nights of passion and mornings of true love, for we have tasted the single-fucking-best grilled cheese sandwich ever made, and it made all that look like a drunk 50-year-old doing Limp Bizkit at karaoke.
Once we tasted the perfect grilled cheese, we experienced the highest expression of the proof of God’s existence. Unfortunately, after we swallowed the ineffable, incomparable final bite of cheese and fried bread, we realized the bitter truth of God’s utter indifference to everything else but the grilled cheese.
Since then, all food, even cheese toasties, is but dust in our mouths. We have dined at Michelin restaurants and kidnapped Wolfgang Puck to force him to grill us a cheese, all in hopes that perhaps we could have a single taste of the perfect grilled cheese.
Alas. Poor Wolfgang is now dead for his failure.
The perfect grilled cheese is the devil’s true bargain, for once you have tasted it, you shall never want anything more, not even watching the light go out of acclaimed Austrian chef Wolfgang Puck’s eyes. We are now but a bitter husk; our punishment for the exquisite knowledge of grilled cheese perfection is the awareness of how fucking sucky every other thing in the world is.
We no longer experience sexual arousal. Puppies are just things to us. A beautiful autumn sunset and an old gas bill look exactly the same.
And we can tell that you will not heed our warnings. You think that the perfect grilled cheese is a fire that your soul can survive. You are wrong.
Because we cannot let the world know the cost of a perfect cheese. We cannot bear that guilt.
We burnt the recipe. We swallowed the ashes in a vain attempt to experience even a charcoal echo of what we once had. It didn’t work.
Do not attempt the perfect grilled cheese. Do not seek after forbidden knowledge of savory, salty, buttery deliciousness. There be dragons, and their cheesy breath is not kind.
And no, mayo was not part of the grilled cheese. Gross.