Wendell M.
Yelp
Let me begin this review by saying that I once farted in this establishment circa September 2012. I walked in this past weekend and the smell was much the same as I once left it. The only reasonable explanation I can think of is that my fart permeated the very structure of the building itself. Not even Hurricane Sandy, god rest her soul, could blow that stench away from the eastern seaboard! Look it wasn't my fault, it was the chowder! It all started one dreary September day. I was with my wife, Claudine who was rather portly at the time. I always remember those days as being a fat and wonderful era. Claudine and I would drive around, looking for anywhere that would satiate our excruciating hunger. "Feed me!" Her fat face would moan. I was too afraid to object. She was a demanding bitch but her coochie was tight and I was in love. Oh, the old times. I remember she used to hog the bed at night. She would pull all the blankets from me and when I tried to pull them back she would growl and snarl like a strange creature and I would be left to shiver in the cold night. The only thing that could make her happy was food. So I spent all my money keeping the beast at bay.
I heard good things about The Mill Wharf, and it just so happened on that September day that we ventured to try it out. We stumbled in and the ambiance was refreshing. It was a lively place, bustling with laughter and joy. Things started off badly however when Claudine got her bunda stuck in the door frame and I needed to tug on her to set her free. Out of breath and hungry, I searched for the hostess. We got a table with a window that looked out over the ocean. Claudine made strange barking noises as she saw the seals swim by the bay. Her uncle Glen Porpoise was part sea mammal. We used to visit by boat and bring small sardines as her family swam around us. We ordered bloody mary's and mimosas and began to get our buzz on. The place smelled of fried fish and other goodies. "What can I get you mister?" the waiter said. His eyes watched my wife the entire time and I placed my hand on hers. "She's mine," I said. "I'll have the stuffed quahog and the burger please." Claudine got the fish sandwich and the buffalo tenders. "Quahog won'y be the only thing you're stuffing tonight," Claudine said. "Yes, mistress" I said.
The food was nothing short of delectable. We laughed, got drunk, and stuffed our faces with immaculate grub that satiated our hunger tenfold. But greed overcame me, and I decided that I wanted something more. "Will there be anything else?" the lustful waiter said, now taking his eyes off of my wife. "I'll take a large cup of clam chowder" I said with a great prideful glance. My wife ordered a mudslide with ice cream and she said it was delectable. My chowder came out and I slurped it all like a gluttonous boob. I belched and patted my stomach proudly. Then it hit me. The psychological distress that followed can only be recounted in excruciating and intolerable detail. Such events I have recounted in my memories for many years, and they have burned their course throughout my psych. At first it started as a rumble. Then a quake. Then a tremor. I began to sweat. My eyes darted, the room spinning, my heart racing. "The bathroom" my racing mind thought. Where is the bathroom? I stood up and that was it. I could even move. And then it happened. One earth shattering, life altering, mud sliding fart. The whole joint went silent. Everyone looked over to our table. My wife dropped her fork. I could hear the seagulls outside. Suddenly the place began to roar with chaos. "Oh my god the smell!" one man said, curling over in his chair in horror. "My eyes!" one woman shrieked. Glasses and plates were shattered. A riot broke out in front of the door as people clawed towards the fresh air. The stench was horrific. All I could do was say sorry but no one could hear me in the tumult. I cried and cried, my eyes both watering from the tears and the utter stench of my creation. "I'm so sorry" I said. And I was. I truly was. After that Claudine left me for another man. He was a portly fellow, a friend of Uncle Porpoise. The last I heard she was somewhere near the North Atlantic Ridge with a couple of pups of her own. I was exiled from society. I went into hiding for many years and became institutionalized.
Being that it's been almost 12 years since the day of reckoning, my gleebence has been quaking for good food. Since my institutionalization, I have been used to bland hospital food, but since my release, I have been searching tirelessly for delectable treats to get my mouth on. After traversing across the south shore, visiting such places like Dave's and Birdies (both grubtastic chicken establishments), I went searching for better places. Perhaps I returned to the Mill Wharf to make amends with my past trauma, or perhaps like a serial killer I returned to the scene of my crime. Whatever it is, I don't know. I am a lone man now. Jesus wept.
