“Hamburgers: the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast.” – Jules Winnfield

WARNING: This post features movie quotes that may be inappropriate for children!

OK, I’ll admit it. I’m obsessed. Well maybe not obsessed. What do you call it when you think exclusively about one thing and can’t get it off of your mind? When you live, eat and breathe one thing alone. Oh, maybe that is obsessed. But it’s not just the sandwich, it’s the name too! They create a ridiculous concoction, so outrageous in its size, ingredients and concept that it becomes a fantasy. Then they couple it with a Pulp Fiction reference for a moniker! I’ve lost all sense of balance. The Royale with Cheese. Obsession.

Vincent: And you know what they call a… a… a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?

Jules: They don’t call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese?

Vincent: No man, they got the metric system. They wouldn’t know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.

Jules: Then what do they call it?

Vincent: They call it a Royale with cheese.

Jules: A Royale with cheese. What do they call a Big Mac?

Vincent: Well, a Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it le Big-Mac.

Jules: Le Big-Mac. Ha ha ha ha. What do they call a Whopper?

Vincent: I dunno, I didn’t go into Burger King.

Classic. We’ve dined at Bantam + Biddy, 4195 Avalon Boulevard, Alpharetta, 678-248-5159, http://www.bantamandbiddy.com/ at least four times and somehow I never noticed it on the menu. The Royale with Cheese. I can’t stop saying it. DL and I were led to our table and there it was. The Royale with Cheese. There was a pretty, young Asian girl sitting across from us, dining alone, and she had just been served. She wore tight shorts and a sheer top, but all I could see was my obsession. The Royale stared at me from her plate in all of its glory, and I thought, “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen”. Just like Pumpkin when he looked inside Jules’ briefcase.

Jules: I hate to shatter your ego, but this is not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.

Pumpkin: You don’t take your fucking hand off that case; it’ll be your last.

Jules: Normally, both your asses would be dead as fucking fried chicken, but you happen to pull this shit while I’m in a transitional period so I don’t wanna kill you, I wanna help you. But I can’t give you this case, it don’t belong to me. Besides, I’ve already been through too much shit this morning over this case to hand it over to your dumb ass.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of it even to look at the girl! Now that’s a sandwich. We scoured the menu to find it, and it took a while. It’s because of the catchy name. The Royale with Cheese. When I saw your name I knew I had to have you. The Royale with Cheese. A voice in my head whispered, “I’ma get medieval on your ass”. The sandwich is huge. The menu describes it as a fried chicken breast, pimento cheese, and Patak bacon (an Austell specialty meat manufacturer) on a homemade biscuit ~ $10.95. The description pales in comparison to the actuality of it. A biscuit the size of a manhole cover. A huge chicken breast fried crispy but not at all greasy. A couple of fat slices of bacon, Creole mustard and pimento cheese! It’s better than fairy dust topped with unicorn tears! It even comes with a side. The Royale with Cheese. Obsession.

The Royale with Cheese. Obsession.

Fabienne: Whose motorcycle is this?

Butch: It’s a chopper, baby.

Fabienne: Whose chopper is this?

Butch: It’s Zed’s.

Fabienne: Who’s Zed?

Butch: Zed’s dead, baby. Zed’s dead.

Speaking of names, what the Hell kind of a name is Jules anyway? Is this a joke? Does Tarantino have a warped sense of humor? A freaking philosophical hit man? A murdering gangster with a spiritual side? Jules? Granted, Jules is a super macho, manly, masculine name. The very sound of it implies strength, violence and virility. Jules. But Jules Winnfield should have been named Spike. Or Zane, Gunner, Rocco, Ajax, Colt, or maybe even Shaft. Yeah, Shaft Winnfield. Better. And of course Jules Winnfield would never eat The Royale with Cheese:

DL Downplays it’s Greatness to Spare My Feelings, But It Doesn’t Help!

Vincent: Want some bacon?

Jules: No man, I don’t eat pork.

Vincent: Are you Jewish?

Jules: Nah, I ain’t Jewish, I just don’t dig on swine, that’s all.

Vincent: Why not?

Jules: Pigs are filthy animals. I don’t eat filthy animals.

Vincent: Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops taste gooood.

Jules: Hey, sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I’d never know ’cause I wouldn’t eat the filthy motherfucker. Pigs sleep and root in shit. That’s a filthy animal.

The Most Beautiful Thing I’ve Ever Seen!

Fortunately, I’m not Jules Winnfield, so I don’t have to refrain from eating my obsession. The Royale with Cheese. The waiter took our order and it wasn’t long before it arrived, my obsession. The runner set down The Royale with Cheese, and it looked even better up close, like the beautiful contents of Jules’ briefcase. Unfortunately, he set it down in front of DL, as alas, I had actually ordered the veggie plate – beet salad, collard greens, kale salad and duck fat fries, all excellent. I don’t have to refrain from eating my obsession, The Royale with Cheese, I just choose to refrain. After all, I am on a health kick. Unfortunately, the decision, while bettering my physical health, has affected my mental health. Obsession. Now all I can think about is The Royale with Cheese. That got away. DL downplayed its splendor. He said it was good but uttered little more. Later, I dragged it out of him. Yes, it’s all that. Every bite a treasure, every component perfect – it tastes just as good as it sounds. I had to get out my wallet to pay for the veggies, $12.