Today, a powerful hope came over me for the ultimate in finest dining. But  if you live where I live, you know what I mean: it's just too diverse! When you want to shuffle back to America, you go to F'T'APPles ["FUH-tapplz"]; whisked into its antediluvian manifolds, you are simply besides yourself with regard for its many singularly unprepossessing sanguinities, speaking not of its charms: whaling spears hearken back to better times, it is to be at Hayanas Port and inside of a Dairy Queen at seven in the morning, tarrying home from the Governor's; lobstering in Maine is a definite overtone to the mood of fresh-awakened LIFE decanted from smoldering coffeepots, trenchant staff sans money problems, perfectly financially secure, and pie one must take care not to talk about without mentioning its exquisitude. Our server yclept "Corazon" assuaged our several minds with cascading payments of attention, a gentle, collectable woman in blue, at the right height to talk to during being seated. A salad, bechickened with ranchykyoo dressing that exerted as well its persuasive "edge" of tantalizing innovation, was festooned with tajazzles of free-reared red fried onion, pardon, onion, fried, free-reared, née red. It was as if they had, floated there. A vast specimen of white bun was oven-baked in a state of as yet uncontemplatable grace, enclosing (as it assuredly did) (yet at the same time pridefully upholding) myriad inner folds of all-too-mortal beef with an almost dialectical sturdiness of frame whose dome to the touch was bemusingly spongy. It could not be made sodden, nay by the blood of the kine we would consume nor by the sweat of these hands, our bloody burger gloves. The patty hulked, hunched, bedorned with bacon and fiery, as if fire-roasted in cozy savage's caves, green chiles the color of chartreuse moss epi oinopa ponton! Our benevolent back-parsons in whitest vestments betrothed the burger to the bun with Thunderhorn Cheddar, shredded, then melted back into one with itself again. A bier of salt-frosted onions unscalded had bivouac'd a veritable malebolge of sibilant oil under the armor of cornmeal in whose viscous spirit's stead was made known the name of true rings throughout America, our feeble land: endless crusts, golden wealth, dies on piles of onions. Reader, we relished these and other things too glad to tell. The bill was nine and twenty; we paid alacritously all. Hitherfore we endow F'T'APPles with, and may be permitted to hope that it finds its soul emboldened indefatigably by, five stars.