I dream of gravy, sometimes. In no way is that hyperbole.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night shouting and flailing my arms, screaming about the cavalry breaking through our rear flank. Those dreams aren’t about gravy; they’re about wars I’ve never fought. Other times, that rich roux aroma is so real, so visceral, that I wake up with it still in my nose.
Gravy is my favorite food. I like lots of food, but there’s something about gravy – that warm, rich, sticks-to-my-inside-part heartiness – that just makes me feel like a goddamn American sultan.
And then there’s bad gravy. I sometimes make the mistake of ordering gravy at a restaurant. When there’s nothing in the world you love more than good gravy, when someone sets down a pile of shitgravy right in front of you without batting an eye, well…that’s enough to get on the fighting side of me. And to be clear, 99 percent of all the gravy you will eat at a restaurant is bad gravy. Terrible gravy. It’d make any decent cowboy damn near tear up, to sit and ponder the general dearth of good gravy in this world today.
Tasi’s gravy is different. Tasi’s gravy has magic. Tasi’s breakfast sausage gravy is the best gravy I’ve ever had in my entire life. If I was a rich man, I would bathe in Tasi’s sausage gravy. If I were President, I would make Tasi’s gravy the nation’s official currency. If I was God, I’d fill the oceans with Tasi’s gravy and set sail on a voyage of wonder and sausage.
It’s different, as I said. I’m no slouch with the gravy myself; in fact, my gravy is the second-best gravy I’ve ever had, but it is a distant second to whatever voodoo the chefs at Tasi are doing. I’ve fantasized about being the first one there when the restaurant opens and eating the first gravy they serve. I’ve thought about spying on them, a clandestine fiend peeping through the window, a gravy voyeur obsessed with discovering the secret to this relatively thin, sausage-first, incredibly buttery gravy. Their biscuits are great, their poached eggs beyond reproach, but if any complaint could be levied at either item, it’s that the gravy is so good it sidelines them.
I would also complain that they don’t put enough gravy on their biscuits, not to suit me. I understand why they do it: it’s for the same reason that your first few hits of heroin are free. They want you to leave that table with yearning in your heart and gravy on your shirt.
While I’ve hinted that I would like to know more about their gravy process several times, no one thus far has been willing to part with much in the way of ingredients… in fact, I don’t even know where they get the sausage, much less how it is made. That said, as a scholarly observer, I can testify that this is no “politically correct” gravy. This gravy is made with Butter and Flour and Meat and not too much else. It’s the kind of basic but perfect sauce that would make a lumberjack walk out and kick a bear in the neck.
It’s gravy as God intended it. Alternatively, it’s gravy in spite of God’s order. It’s perfect. If you put it in your car’s gas tank, you’d be driving a truck.
It’s flawless, and an order with two delicious flaky biscuits will only put you back $7. If you’ve never had it, you should stop what you are doing and go get it. Now. Or tomorrow morning. As soon as possible.