The Financial District boys are at Led Zeppole, a deep-fried dessert shop on 14th street, grimy enough to make Kim Jong-Un shart his pants. The owners of the beloved Artichoke Pizza are behind this atrocious idea and potentially behind your cardiac arrest.
We talking Fried Oreos, Zeppoles and BYOCandy and we’ll fry that too.
The color of the frying oil slightly resembles a rotten-tar/ sewage black so it must be a giant FUCK YOU to your arteries.
We started our pre-game at Crif Dogs and slowly dragged our bodies to 1st Ave. The Jon-Jon Deragons and the tater tots were slowly creepin’ into the bloodstream by then. I really should have paced myself.
BUT, if Paula Deen can get her ass to enjoy fried butter during Type-2 Diabetes, I have no excuse. Bring us the Oreos.
We arrived at Happy Hour (7-9PM) when Fried Oreos are 4 for 4.
They actually want you to die.
Nonetheless, the Fried Oreos are truly delicious (for the first twenty minutes). The subtle bits of crunch still linger around the hot concoction and the fried outer-layers do a great job of retaining the creamy white filling.
To the people who say that ALL OREOS should be Double-Stuffed: YEAH, LET’S NOT DO THAT.
A great value! 4 Zeppoles for 3 dollars! NO. Every person should be cut off after three bites. This is the “too much of a good thing is a bad thing.” Nevertheless, the fried dough is really appetizing for the first ten minutes. Warm, soft batter golden-showered with lots of powdered sugar. My head begins to spin, but I’m sober. WHAT IS GOING ON.
As time slowly progresses, the FiDi boys start becoming a little more generous, insisting that the people around take the last bites of fried dough. At this point: Heart attack, imminent.
It’s definitely a fun ride, but I think I might run to Wafels and Dinges next time. Paula, I’m ready for my colonic now.