Neon Memes • Few junkies enjoy the favors of a dealer as debonair as mine. He affects a top hat, a monocle and an ebony walking stick. His street handle? "Mr. Peanut." In the past few months, the villainous legume has somehow or other hooked me, like a yokel straight off the Greyhound, on what appears to be a new jones genengineered in Bogotá or Marseille or, I dunno, Northfield, Ill.: Planters' Classic Salt Kettle Roasted Peanuts. Lately I seem categorically incapable of visiting the Mackenzie Pointe Dierbergs (7233 Watson Road, 314.752.7771) without plunking down $2.19 plus tax for a 7.5-ounce reclosable bag of the things. Among other merits, their mouthfeel lacks the mealiness of cocktail peanuts and the diffuseness of their dry-roasted brethren. (Dear God, I just dropped the noun mouthfeel. Next I'll be hanging out in wine bars.) Each bag promises "Extra Crunch," and I really think that's what did it, man, the extra crunch. The extra crunch―I just didn't see the extra crunch coming. ―Bryan A. Hollerbach, Managing Editor
Nuts!
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