We had a few assignments about food, and most of them ended up being about one Tony’s or another.

There was a friend of mine, once, who was absolutely disgusting when he ate. To start you off with a mental image, think about deep-frying meatballs. Think of the odor from the fryer as they’re cooking. The sizzling beef, its own grease frying next to the grease in the cooker. The thick, stick-to-your-lungs smell that soaks into clothes, skin, walls, furniture… and when they were done, he’d pop them into his waiting maw like popcorn. And that’s not even the worst of it.

Consider Tony’s, home of the steak sandwich. Known statewide for their homemade bread and enormous portions. He would always order their steak sandwich, and everyone at the table would cringe. First came the salad – no tomato – with bleu cheese dressing. He’d drown his salad in the dressing, the chunks of cheese masking the shape of the lettuce and cucumbers. By the time this was inhaled, he’d nearly destroyed his first napkin with the dressing that had missed his mouth entirely.

Then came the sandwich itself. The plate was more of a platter, and it barely held the enormous sandwich and its side of french fries. The steak and melting cheese on the behemoth were already dripping off enough grease to soak the bottom piece of bread. He would frost the fries with a layer of salt, and then drown them in salty ketchup. He would take two or three of the fries, each big enough already in its own right, and jam them into his mouth. He was heedless of the ketchup that covered his fingers and would inevitably stain his clothes.

The sandwich would get stuffed in his face in a similar fashion, but instead of making a mess with salad dressing or ketchup, the grease would literally cover the bottom half of his face. It would get all over his fingers, mixing with and thinning the ketchup. By the time the meal was over, it was a ghastly seen.

Three or four napkins were decimated. Ketchup and grease covered his fingers, while the grease was usually alone on his face and chin. He would emit a satisfied belch, which usually brought another wince from his companions. Then, he would stick each one of his digits in his mouth and lick each of them clean. The greasy sheen was replaced with one of spittle. If we were lucky, he had one last napkin. If not, he’d wipe his hands on his pants, already riddled with stains, and attempt to clean his face with his tongue.

Horrifying doesn’t even come close.