There are two ways I would like my cold, lifeless corpse to be found in the morning: sitting on the toilet, hand clutching my heart, greasy bloodstream full of homemade barbiturates or, much more preferably, sitting on the toilet, hand clutching my heart, an empty to-go box from Beef and Buns, Mr. Catfish resting near my bloated feet.
Besides having a name based on the greatest children’s book never written, Beef and Buns, Mr. Catfish is the type of fast food joint that, in a fair and just world, would be on every corner of every block instead of a McDonald’s. Situated in what looks to be an abandoned Captain D’s at 2741 N.E. 23rd St., the ambiance is saved by the rather large anatomically correct cow standing guard out front, welcoming patrons with a testicular gusto those bovine Chick-Fil-A eunuchs could only dream of.