Ten ways to anger the waiter/waitress (henceforth referred to as waiter, for simplicity’s sake, gosh darn it):

10. Upon first meeting the waiter, announce that the amount of money you intend to pay in gratuity will be directly proportional to the number of times he calls you “Lord Vader.”

9. When your food arrives, sneeze in it. Then insist that you deserve a new meal.

8. Ask the waiter whether he recommends the chicken or the beef. Order whichever option he does not suggest.

7. Ask the waiter whether he recommends the chicken or the beef. Order a salad.

6. Order soup. When it arrives, put a zipper slide in it and exclaim loudly, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!” Laugh hysterically for at least two minutes.

5. Bring an mp3 player with an external speaker. Every time the waiter approaches your table, play the theme from St. Elmo’s Fire. If he asks what you’re doing, tell him it’s his theme song.

4. Take only one bite of your meal and tell him you’re finished. Ask to see a dessert menu.

3. Immediately accuse your waiter of spitting in your food (even if you have not done any of the other things on this list), and storm out of the restaurant.

2. Order a steak rare. Send it back, explaining that you would rather it medium rare. Send it back a second time, asking for it to be well done. Upon receiving the well done steak, say disappointedly, “I really would rather it rare.”

1. Explain that your name is Beef and that you write for a critically acclaimed food blog. Feign the expectation that, in light of this information, you won’t have to pay.

This delicious of the week represents many firsts. It was the first meal I ate–nay, the first meal I decided to photograph– in Germany. It was the first time I had eaten Franconian sausage while in Franconia. It was my first al aire libre experience in Europe. And it was the first time that I had a meal served to me on a heart shaped pewter plate.

It was the first time that I was in the presence of rice while I ate a meal I would later write about. Yes, just out of the frame above is rice. It was the first time a little bird landed next to my plate and told me to write a post about firsts.

This is the first chicken and rice post about the idea of firsts. And this is the first time that I’ve written such a post. This is the first time you are reading one. This is probably the first time you have realized that this is your first time reading a chicken and rice post of this nature, as this is the first time I’ve pointed it out to you.

But for every first, there is a second, third, fourth, etc. Firsts are unique. They are the initial prods into uncharted territory. They are the trailblazers, the leaders, the sparks on the flint edge. They ooze ambition, they emanate adventure, and occasionally, they taste like Franconian sausage.

Oh Mittelfranken Brats, in a world of seconds, you truly are a first.

Do you remember the days when the milkman stopped at your house regularly to deliver fresh milk? If you’re reading this blog, your answer is likely, “no.” But that doesn’t mean that you can’t appreciate the idea of home delivered milk and what a wonderfully simple and heartening system it was.

A company in Des Moines has taken this idea one step further, one step more wholesome, one step more delicious. Instead of milk, they deliver bread to your door. Yes, bread, sustainer of life and motivator of souls.

The Daily Loaf offers a wide variety of breads, and they deliver the loafs directly to your door. The catch? You must live in Des Moines. I admit that I have weighed the pros and cons of living in Iowa many times. This realization that I could have fresh bread delivered to my house falls neatly into the pro category.

If I do indeed move to Iowa, I await excitedly the moment when an apparition of  ”Shoeless” Joe Jackson walks up to me in a corn field and asks if he is in heaven. I will break off a piece of herb batard, hand it to him, and say, “This is Iowa. But yes, Joe. It is also heaven.”