Hearing I ask from the holy races,
Of Edwin's news post, both high and low;
Thou wilt, dear reader, that well I relate
Of the food I tasted from men long ago.
I remember yet the truck of yore,
Which gave me sausage in the days gone by;
Four items I tried of the seven on the list
With reasonable prices written by their side.
Of old was the stop at the roller derby;
Neither rain nor torrents nor the wind's strong burst,
Nor flick'ring power, nor lack of change
Could keep me from my appointed bratwurst.
Then Flores lifted the screened-in window,
Odin's meal he passed through its maw;
Sausage, bacon, cheddar, sauerkraut,
Red cabbage, mustard, and ketchup I saw.
Flavors shall make war and kill each other,
And strong ingredients fight to the death,
Yet a strange, lovely harmony arose from the fray,
And the only victim was the eater's breath.
The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea,
This hot dog down from heaven is whirled;
My heart was sold to this tube steak all dressed,
While great snap, sweetness, fire, and lactic acid unfurled.
Far easier to the ears was the dish named Berserker,
Sausage, ham, Swiss cheese, and mustard keen,
Yet it did not satisfy as the All-father's dish,
Being far too one-note and greasy with sheen.
The critics of food shall meet together
When someday the lore of this truck is read;
Its logo–a warrior with noble beard–
Holding a corn dog the size of his head.
The picture is false, the proportions a lie,
The corndog is less than a foot in length,
With a pleasing mixture of batter and meat,
Impaled on a thick wooden spike for strength.
The Nemesis they call it, freshly fried, amid
The inevitable comparison to the Little Red Wagon.
Though the meats are different, this version is good,
Ripping hot and accompanied by the eggs of a dragon.
That single side dish only is sold from the truck,
Dragon Eggs, a potato dish worthy of being bought:
Tater tots, chili, cheese, ketchup, and sour cream,
Which of another faraway dish's did give us thought:
Of Bar Louie! Yet, unlike that sad place
Where companies of sunburnt tourists languish
Freya's tater tots here retain their shape
And crispness o'er the goop does vanquish.
From below the lonchera dark comes forth,
Luis Flores flying to the roller rink,
The scent of his food on its wings he bears,
The Viking Truck bright; but now I must sink.
Should you seek for this truck, or to read this long blog,
Or to follow us on social media, should you look,
On Twitter @thevikingtruck, their website the same.
Stick a Fork In It's Twitter is here, and our Facebook.
(Read the original Völuspá here, and my apologies to any Ásatrúar I may have offended.)