Normally, dear reader, I’d open with a caption-worthy photo—vibrant steam dancing off a plate, lighting just right, and a word that hits your soul like oxtail gravy on rice. And yes, today, there is a photo. But this one? It ain’t exactly screaming “Holy Fork, That’s Good.”

You see, I planned this lunch with the kind of anticipation reserved for birthdays and payday Fridays. My heart? Expectant. My stomach? Speaking in tongues. I strutted into the spot like Elijah on Mount Carmel—ready to call down fire. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and everything aligned for this to be a top-tier food testimony.

Then came the order: buffalo chicken wings and creamy chicken Alfredo. Hallelujah on paper.

I picked up my meal with the reverence of a woman collecting her inheritance. It sat in the passenger seat like destiny wrapped in foil. I could practically hear the angels hum as I drove.

But then…

The Wings That Winged Too Hard

The buffalo chicken? Let’s talk. If sodium were a spiritual gift, this dish came filled with the Holy Ghost. It wasn’t so much buffalo as it was sweet chili’s dramatic cousin who came late to the function and brought extra attitude.

Now listen—I love me a bold wing. I do. But this? This was less of a flavor punch and more of a confusion conference. My tongue is still debriefing.

The Alfredo That Got Ambushed

Now, about that chicken Alfredo. Let’s be fair: it wasn’t a disaster. In fact, my son gave it his royal toddler thumbs-up and cleaned the plate like he was getting paid.

But me? I was betrayed by basil. It came in like a jealous supporting character—loud, pushy, and trying to take over the whole show. I wanted creamy comfort. What I got was a herb with a God complex.

Was it edible? Yes. Would I order it again? Not without counseling.

A Word to the Kitchen, With Love

To the good folks behind this meal: grace and peace unto you. Taste is subjective. Maybe today was just an off day, or maybe your buffalo sauce and my palate weren’t destined to walk together.

And because I still believe in second chances, I’m not naming the establishment. This is not about dragging—this is about digesting. Some lessons come with dessert. Some come with regret. Both nourish you differently.

Final Bite

Even a meal that misses the mark can leave behind a message. Today’s? That expectation without delivery leads to disappointment—and that a good plate deserves more than just salt and hope.

But we move. The fork rises again.

Holy Fork Rating: 2.5/5 — Needs Prayer

Have you had a meal like this lately? Something that looked like a promise and ate like a plot twist? Drop your story in the comments or send me your favorite can’t-miss lunch spots in the BVI. I’m hungry for redemption.