Cheap and dirty

I don’t want you to get the impression that I’m a food ponce.

Well, I am. I’m never happier than when complaining that my chenin blanc is half a degree too warm, or doing vertical tastings of artisanal balsamic vinegars. But sometimes all any of us really wants is instant, cheap, and frankly rather shameful satisfaction.

And where better than here?

Yes, the other day I had it my way. Just this once.

There was a time when I regarded the burger as the gourmet option. I still mourn the passing of the incomparable Bret’s Burger Bar - this bastion of 1980s Oxford life (a tiny shack parked fifty yards from the station) presented you with a slathering pile of red meat covered in twenty kinds of relish that filled the gap between getting off the train and arriving home for supper half an hour later.

But age brings wisdom and after a while I was hit with the stark realisation that maybe this wasn’t the healthiest lifestyle choice I could make.

Sometimes, though, nothing else will do. Because when you’ve been on the road, and it’s raining, and the alternative is a dried-up ‘all-day breakfast’ sandwich, well, you know what?

It’s BK time.

But then, in a tactical blunder of an enormity not seen since General Custer won the toss and asked England to bat on a belter, I let my ‘better’ self take over.
So instead of the logical choice (Whopper, large fries, extra saturated fats in a bucket, Coke the size of Hampshire), I ordered the ‘healthy’ option (some sort of chickeny thing wedged between a couple of slices of polystyrene, microscopic bag of chips, tasteless piece of limp rag calling itself lettuce).

Schoolboy error.

What on earth possessed me? It was the equivalent of going on a stag weekend and sitting in the corner of the lap dancing club all night with your gaze averted, nursing a half of Kaliber. Or finding yourself on a double date with Michelle Pfeiffer and Jamie Lee Curtis (showing my age there) and leaving early because QI is on.

As soon as I ordered the ‘food’ from the ‘waitress’ I knew the whole enterprise was doomed.

And so it proved.

I chomped my way balefully through the alleged meal, staring out on the service station car park of despair, and made a decision.

McDonald’s for supper.

Comments

[Gwen]

May I respectfully suggest the Philly Cheese Steak as an alternative?

Onions, slowly softened, then add thinly sliced green pepper and mushrooms; give them five minutes or so. Next add your rib steak (lots of nice marbled fat but trim off the excess round the edges) sliced into 1/8 inch slices.

Lay the slices on top of the sizzling onion/pepper/mushroom mix to gently cook and turn when just starting to brown. Cover the cooking meat (and veg) with sliced Monterey Jack (or other melty) cheese and let it melt as the meat cooks to semi-medium-rare-ish.

Split a white submarine roll and spread liberally with Primula or other processed cheese (Cheez Whiz is the ne plus ultra here) then mound on the meaty, cheesy goodness and attempt to form into a sandwich.

Eat. Guiltily.

[Runny Thinker]

Sounds utterly delicious. But as I was on the M40 at the time it may not have been the most practical choice. Also, those ingredients sound far too high-quality (apart from Cheez Whi. Of course).