Escaping Flavortown with Guy Fieri

You wake up in a pile of giant calamari, and the hot oil stings your skin. The gargantuan halos are looped around your arms and legs, pulling you down. They’re fresh out of the fryer and hot, hot, hot! How did you get here? You don’t know. You remember nothing. You just know you’re burning to death in an oversized appetizer of crispy, crispy rings. It does smell good, though–perhaps a hint of lemon.

Suddenly, a hand reaches out to you. There’s a clunky ring on the pinky and a Rolex on the wrist. You grasp at the hand, and it pulls you from delicious death. Your savior is Guy Fieri. You recognize his frosted hair and polarized sunglasses from the Food Network. You love the Food Network. Part of his black goat-tee is bleached Cheeto-orange, and he’s wearing a loose, black button up with race car flames up the flanks.

“Welcome to Flavortown,” he says, except it’s more of a yell. Then, more quietly, conspiratorially, “Please. Get me out of here.” He waves his hand around, and you see what he means. You’re trapped in some kind of food-theme fantasy land, Fieri-style. Mötley Crüe blasts  in the background, but you’re not sure where it’s coming from. Boulder-sized tater tots dot the landscape, and a river of melted cheese oozes into the distance. At your feet, a path of pizzas line the way to a sugar-dusted castle. It’s all very colorful, but not particularly nice, a deep-fried Land of Oz. It starts to rain, and of course it’s hot sauce. Frank’s. Thankfully, it’s just a sprinkle.

“How do we get out?” You ask, and Guy says you have to cross through Flavortown to the Cannoli Castle, surviving Mount Mash, the Burger Bogs, and other alliterative, Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives-themed landmarks. Once you get to the castle, you’ll be OUT OF THIS WORLD, like his grandmother’s tiramisu (recipe available on FoodNetwork.com).

The hot sauce is coming down thick now, stinging your eyes and painting the landscape kool aid-red. Somehow, Guy seems impervious to the weather, his golden hair like a halo, shielding him from the worldly woes of pepper-tinted vinegar. The untouchable, Mayor-God of Flavortown.

“You think this is bad?” He says, “Wait for nacho cheese season.”

So you and Guy hop in his red Camaro convertible and blast down the road of pizzas–pepperonis and olives slapping you in the face. It only takes 22 minutes to arrive at the castle, yet the two of you barely survive. Guy falls into the cheese river twice, and you have to save him with a kayak-sized tortilla chip. Then there’s the soft serve avalanche; eating through that is a real headache. The hot sauce torrent grows to a full monsoon, forcing you to take cover in the mayonnaise bogs, and as you know, nothing gets the smell of mayo out. Nothing.

Finally, you get to the castle, enveloped in an ethereal mist. The fortress’ final defense. You and Guy trample blindly through the fog, which smells like mesquite-smoked, baby back ribs. Extra saucy. At first, it’s pleasant, but then the intoxicating scent grasps hold of your mind. All you can think about is barbecue–brisket, pulled pork, even a hearty chili. In a haze, you realize you will wait until the end of the world, in the longest line in Austin, if it means first pick of fatty or lean. You become obsessed, demand to meet the invisible pit master, howl for burnt ends, and scream incoherently about dry rubs. You’re ready to sling slurs in a Reddit post, listing seven different kinds of pepper, when you feel Guy shaking you. The miasma has lifted, and the hallucination disperses. Thank god. You were almost lost in the sauce. Or smoke, rather.

There, behind Guy, is the entrance to Cannoli Castle. You made it.

Inside, a cloaked figure is waiting for you, his head obscured by a heavy hood.

“We’ve won!” Guys yells, and the two of you fist bump. You smell like a food court, but you’ve survived. Then the cloak figured approaches. Could this be it? Could you and Guy finally escape this hellscape? This extra crispy fever dream? Suddenly, you notice the figure’s black cloak has flames painted near the feet. Suddenly, you hear a sassy guitar riff, mocking you. A single gold earring glitters from under the hood. Horrified, you pull off the cloak.

It’s Guy Fieri. Another one. You turn to YOUR Guy Fieri, and his face darkens.

“What does this mean, Guy? Does this mean we’re not going home?” You ask.

Your Guy shakes his head, solemnly, as if someone had mentioned calories. Your confusion turns to anger. How could he do this to you? Wasn’t he your buddy? Didn’t you save each other from every heart-attack inducing horror of this cruel, funky, slama-jama universe?

“Why did you betray me, Guy?” You plead. But he says nothing.

Instead, the hooded Fieri cackles. He holds a mirror to your face. It all becomes clear.

“Fool!” he booms, “You, too, are Guy Fieri!”

The bomb dot com has dropped. Your knees buckle, and you crumple to the floor like a used napkin. You bury your head in your hands–how did you not notice the rings and the Rolex? You look to your original Fieri, your travel companion, the one who saved you and who you saved as well, the molten cheese blisters still throbbing on your arms and legs.

“Sorry, Brother,” your Guy says to you, shrugging. “But don’t you know, there’s no escaping Flavortown?”

Outside the castle, the hot sauce rain picks up again.