Midnight Express

Midnight Express is, from what I gather, a superb motion picture. Some may argue John Hurt‘s finest hour since a half-ton of animatronic nastiness exploded from his chest and squirted blood and viscera over Sigourney Weaver et al.

However, I talk of the burger bar in Chamonix.

Oh. My. InsertDeityOfChoice.

You know when you have memories of somewhere and you give it much more credit than it deserves? It was a fantastic holiday and that little restaurant made the best profiteroles in the world? Or the bar with those wonderful canapes?

Then you go back sober and realise they actually kinda sucked?

This will never happen with Midnight Express. I popped by tonight and I admit to having some reservations. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as good as I remembered. How many times was I drunk when I bought one, so I wouldn’t notice that it wasn’t really that good?

My fears were unfounded. A five-Euro burger was enough to remind me that they probably make the best fast food in the world. My taste buds are still bouncing. I have a whack-load of chocolate on my desk and I don’t want any of it in case it takes the taste away.

Oh, I hope Google picks this one up. Chamonix. French Alps. France. Burgers.

Midnight Express. No other option. Forget McDonald’s. Midnight Express.

I want another one.

Now.

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