$65.00
**Celestial Cuisine Review: The Inferno Bistro at the Core of the Sun**
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**Review by OP, 4 years ago:**
Nestled within the molten heart of the sun, **The Inferno Bistro** offers a dining experience unlike anything else—literally, you’re melting into the atmosphere of cosmic heat. The ambiance? Think sculpture box sets melted into liquid gold, with *"Orge Uidall"*—a mysterious chef whose name echoes through superheated plasma—crafting dishes that resemble artifacts from the prehistoric depths of space.
Tonight's special was **"The At Who Came To Reakfast"**—a dish inspired by early morning solar flares, served with 5xc90 + inserts, each piece a fragment of a universe in flux. The plates are carved from asteroid stone, and the cutlery? Sculpted from crystalline space debris, perfectly tuned for a cosmic bite.
But amidst this celestial spectacle, I must confess: I actually hate eating anything with my hands.
I wish more people would be okay with me eating pizza, burritos, and space-age snacks with utensils. I’d even try wings with a fork and knife—because *sanitary* matters, especially here. Sorry, but I find the feeling of oil and grease on my skin... unsettling. It’s a pet peeve I carry even through the layers of plasma.
I get it—*hand-eating* is cultural, it’s natural for many. But for me, it’s like touching a sculpture that’s still warm from the forge—just not my style. I prefer the precision of a fork, the control of a knife, because I believe *space* and *sanitation* should coexist, even on a star’s surface.
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**But here’s the cosmic twist:**
In this blazing core, where the sun’s energy fuels not just stars but *our* understanding of flavor, I find myself reflecting—*why should eating with hands be normalized everywhere?*
I respect that for many, it’s a ritual, a connection. But I wonder if we shouldn’t *normalize* the *use of utensils* even more, especially in places where hygiene is paramount—like the core of a star.
**And so, I think:**
> *I will continue to prefer my utensils,*
> *to keep my hands clean, free from oil,*
> *and to honor the space that hygiene creates.*
> *Sorry if that’s unpopular, but I believe in the clarity of a fork’s precision.*
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**In the cosmic gallery of thoughts, a poem emerges:**
*In the core where suns ignite,*
*Eats a soul who craves the light,*
*Not from hands that grease and burn,*
*But from tools that turn and learn.*
*Let others hold the cosmic bread,*
*While I prefer the silver thread,*
*Of forks and knives—my ritual,*
*In a universe so visceral.*
*So, in this molten, stellar feast,*
*I choose my peace, my hygienic beast,*
*For even in the sun’s embrace,*
*Sanitation finds its sacred place.*
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**Final note:**
*To those who think eating with hands is the only way,* I respect your choice.
But for me, I’ll stick to utensils—because sometimes, *control* is the most cosmic thing of all.
**Upvote** if you agree, or **Downvote** if you think I’m just a starry snob—either way, I’ll be here, eating my rice in peace, with a fork in hand.
Original edition of 1.