Johnny Cash
Jasper might not have much going for it, but it does have a brew pub, serving eight different ales of varying but above average quality. It also serves food that nourishes. More you couldn't ask for.
But, should you ever find yourself in Jasper, and in need of sustenance, I have a word of advice.
Steer clear of the Voodoo Wings.
I like a challenge. Tell me something can't be done, and I'm the idiot up there trying to prove you wrong. But I may have made a mistake with the Voodoo Wings.
For those of you who have lived in a cave all your lives, or who haven't travelled much beyond Albion's silver shores, Wings are Chicken Wings, and in the greater American continent they are served a starter or aperitif, fried until cooked and then doused in some form of sauce to make up for a basic lack of flavour inherent in all mass-produced poultry.
There is a certain amount of pissing contest in the mixing of sauces for wings, with the Scoville unit being the measure of machoness. The hotter the better, apparently, and in Jasper, Voodoo Wings are the hottest you can imagine.
I, of course, thought better, and ordered a pound of the things. The first one made my face turn bright red; the second had me wheezing like an asthmatic at a dog show. The third brought tears to my eyes, which was a welcome wash for the contact lenses. Of the remaining ten, I can only say 'Ow.'
But I ate them all. Only when I'd finished did the waiter tell me that no-one else had ever managed the feat (even aided by the glass of milk I requested at half time). Sadly there was no reward for such foolhardiness, other than the inevitable toilet bowl howl the next morning. There's a lot to be said for putting the paper in the fridge.
Heading back from the brew-pub to the hotel, we met a Caribou walking towards us up the high street, grazing lightly upon the scant grass revealed by the thawing snow. It was a truly Northern Exposure moment, and for a moment, I thought it a hallucination brought on by too much capsaicin. But no, the beast was real, and quite unconcerned by our presence.
I think this town is growing on me.
But, should you ever find yourself in Jasper, and in need of sustenance, I have a word of advice.
Steer clear of the Voodoo Wings.
I like a challenge. Tell me something can't be done, and I'm the idiot up there trying to prove you wrong. But I may have made a mistake with the Voodoo Wings.
For those of you who have lived in a cave all your lives, or who haven't travelled much beyond Albion's silver shores, Wings are Chicken Wings, and in the greater American continent they are served a starter or aperitif, fried until cooked and then doused in some form of sauce to make up for a basic lack of flavour inherent in all mass-produced poultry.
There is a certain amount of pissing contest in the mixing of sauces for wings, with the Scoville unit being the measure of machoness. The hotter the better, apparently, and in Jasper, Voodoo Wings are the hottest you can imagine.
I, of course, thought better, and ordered a pound of the things. The first one made my face turn bright red; the second had me wheezing like an asthmatic at a dog show. The third brought tears to my eyes, which was a welcome wash for the contact lenses. Of the remaining ten, I can only say 'Ow.'
But I ate them all. Only when I'd finished did the waiter tell me that no-one else had ever managed the feat (even aided by the glass of milk I requested at half time). Sadly there was no reward for such foolhardiness, other than the inevitable toilet bowl howl the next morning. There's a lot to be said for putting the paper in the fridge.
Heading back from the brew-pub to the hotel, we met a Caribou walking towards us up the high street, grazing lightly upon the scant grass revealed by the thawing snow. It was a truly Northern Exposure moment, and for a moment, I thought it a hallucination brought on by too much capsaicin. But no, the beast was real, and quite unconcerned by our presence.
I think this town is growing on me.
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