My God. It's so soft. It's so soft it could make rubbing your face against fresh laundry feel like cheek-surfing three miles down a gravel road after being knocked off a motorcycle by a pterodactyl. I want to use it as a pillow.
My friends all look at me. Waiting for me to say something, breathlessly leaning forward in anticipation of a critique. They pester me as their own meals go cold. This is what you get for dining with women. They don't understand me. They think I'm just having dinner. The truth is I'm finally on a first date with a burger babe I've been watching from the shadows for ages. Silently salivating over for years. We're locked away in our own imaginary room, getting ready to make love while my dining partners pound at our door like drunk teen girls trying to get into the bathroom at a house party.
The kobe/chuck patty meets my lips and I start to question if kobe beef truly is the insufferable fad I always thought it was. They say when your heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes. In this case it's smoked pepper mayo, and it's gettin' all over my taste-buds. It's not the loveliest flame, but it's more than enough for a one night stand. The copious amounts of mayo, havarti and onion ensure our affair is a messy one. Six pieces of bacon adorn this little mama. That's the average for a babe at Lunchbox. The honey-cured strips are so good you'll wish the average was double that.
It's tough to give a post-coital review of my encounter with The Smoker. She was a great time, one of my best, but I still have eyes for other girls.
VERDICT: It would be hyperbolic to say The Smoker is perfect, but she's the closest I've come in quite some time.