Last Wednesday I took my first visit to Boston Market. I had always heard great things from my friends and family, along with several good reviews I have read from other respected members of the food critic community, but I’ve never had the importunity to visit myself.
I walked through the front door and was instantly greeted by the delicious smelling food that could just have well have been from grandmas Thanksgiving dinner, and a friendly staff. The line was not long, but with speedy service it was my turn to order in no time.
As I approached the counter to place my order a homeless man wandered into the establishment. The manager walked from behind the counter and proceeded to throw the man on the ground and mercilessly beat him. A few members of the crew emerged from the back of Boston Market with an array of various cooking utensils and joined their manager in the decimation of this man’s body. This homeless man and I locked eyes during his final moments. His wind pipe had been crushed but his eyes seemed to cry out for salvation, and end to this inhumanity. I maintained my gaze and watched the final light of life slip from the soul of his eyes as I finished placing my order.
The woman behind the register asked me if I would like to make my order of macaroni and cheese a large as the staff and crew of this Boston Market slit the, now dead, man’s throat. They used their hands to paint a pentagram on the floor of the Boston Market with his blood. The manager now took control of the situation, pausing briefly to collect his thoughts, and proceeding with the utterance of an ancient ritual in a dead language. When he finished the building the was thrown into complete darkness for nineteen seconds and was filled with a booming laughter. When light was returned to the building the homeless man’s body, and his blood, were gone. In their place was a baby, lying in an old wooden crib, covered in a smooth purple silk. I looked into the baby’s eyes and they were pitch black. The infant then blinked, and his eyes were suddenly transformed into a crisp ocean blue. The manager of the Boston Market then picked up the newborn out of the crib and handed him to an elderly woman wearing a cowl who sat in the corner. The woman carried the young child out of the Boston Market before being disappearing into the night as I received my change from the cashier and sat down at the nearest booth.
So whether you get the tender rotisserie chicken, classic mashed potatoes, freshly steamed vegetables, or garlic-infused steam spinach, Boston Market brings the old-fashioned home-cooked meal to the 21-century busy-man.
I give Boston Market 4 out of 5 stars