Fast food and I have a complicated relationship. I only eat it
approximately zero to one times per year, but I’m not one to scoff. I
think adults should eat what they want, and if what they want is a
chicken tender buried in mashed potatoes and sprinkled with corn,
that’s no ominous gray gravy off my back.
Over the past three days—in a noble pursuit of “cheap
eats”—I have consumed more fast food than usually passes my lips
in three years. I gained 75 pounds. My aorta is clogged with nuggets.
Soon I will give birth to the Hamburglar’s baby, which is not a baby,
but a squeaking litter of small hamburgers. Then I will eat my
young.
In the spirit of cheapness, I decided to limit myself to the very
cheapest offerings at my chosen cheap restaurants: dollar menus, value
menus, seriously-we’ll-pay-you-$5-to-eat-this menus. My first
stop was McDonald’s (1122 Madison St and a zillion other
places). I ordered one cheeseburger ($1), one Grilled Chipotle Barbeque
Snack Wrap ($1.49), and one Crispy Ranch Snack Wrap ($1.49). The
McDonald’s cheeseburger is an enduring classic, offering simple,
compact satisfaction, with pickle and finely chopped onion. Someone
very close to me semiregularly feeds McDonald’s cheeseburgers to her
small dog. It’s an interspecies taste sensation.
The snack wraps are new to me. A dryish tortilla swaddles a chicken
finger (available either deep-fried or with unconvincing grill marks),
some iceberg lettuce, shredded cheese, and a McSauce of your choice.
Wraps are weird. Are you a taco? Why are you better than a naked
chicken finger dipped in ranch dressing? I mean, I ain’t mad atcha,
snack wrap. On the whole, not a bad snack.
NEEEXT! It was time for Wendy’s (2543 Rainier Ave S, many
others). It had been years since my last Frosty, and—as a lady
who can’t abide a runny milkshake—I couldn’t wait. The classic
Frosty (small, $1.19) is less a milkshake than a giant cup of beige ice
cream (“Made with real milk!” crows the Wendy’s website). Apparently,
sometime in the past year, somebody fed the Frosties after
midnight, and they spawned a half-dozen unholy offspring: vanilla bean,
chocolate fudge, strawberry, cookie dough, whatever. I stayed away. For
the sake of novelty, I paired my classic Frosty with a Sour Cream and
Chives Baked Potato ($1). Again, from the Wendy’s website: “Slow-baked
in an oven, not zapped in a microwave. Need we say more?” Yes: “Needs
salt.”
Ahhh, Burger King (3301 Fourth Ave S, many other places).
This creepy magic kingdom yielded possibly the most satisfying
straight-ahead fast-food bargain of the bunch: The Whopper Jr. ($1), a
good burger with fine accoutrements that is way more substantial than
the McDonald’s cheeseburger. If you are poor and hungry, you should eat
one. It’s that simple.
There’s nothing simple about Burger King’s Spicy CHIK’N CRISP
Sandwich ($1), which gets downright existential: “This crispy chicken
filet with a spicy kick comes prepared with garden-fresh iceberg
lettuce and creamy mayonnaise all sandwiched in a fresh sesame seed
bun. All this for $1. Isn’t life great?” Well, no. Life isn’t great.
I’m eating a dry, orange chicken puck from Burger King because I only
have $1 to my name. But thanks for reminding me, asshole. (I should
have gotten a Whopper Jr.)
Lucky for all, Taco Time (2212 N 45th St, so many others)
remains a winner. Mexi-Fries ($1.69), always and forever. The
surprisingly delightful Crisp Chicken Burrito (“All-white chicken,
cream cheese, onions, and mild green chilies,” $3.89) was accurately
described by a friend as “the crab Rangoon of Mexican food.” But the
best thing about Taco Time is its signature sopaipilla-like dessert
Crustos ($1.49), fried pieces of fried stuff—I hesitate to call
them tortillas—covered in cinnamon and sugar and early-morning
eye gunk. But seriously, they’re delicious.
According to Pizza Hut (2743 E Madison St, but you know they
deliver, right? 325-3200), fuck Italy. Real pasta comes from New
York City. Their current ad campaign for Signature Tuscani Pastas
($11.99—feeds four!) pulls a Folger’s-style switcheroo on some
“real New Yorkers” who are uniformly bamboozled into thinking that
these bites of gooey Meaty Marinara or Creamy Chicken Alfredo came from
an actual Italian restaurant instead of a garbage hut! Sorry,
but there’s no way that happened. This pasta—excuse me, browned
mush loaf—tastes somewhat pleasantly like school lunch. But fancy
food it is not. Thanks to some more aggressive marketing, I also tried
the Hershey’s Chocolate Dunkers, which are just breadsticks dipped in
chocolate syrup (full disclosure: I ate like six of them).
The last and most terrifying item on my list was the Cheeseburger
Big Bite ($1.79) from 7-Eleven (103 15th Ave E, many others). My
editor had ordered me to give it a shot—”you just have to take
one bite!” The Cheeseburger Big Bite is, as far as I can tell, a glob
of ground meat and cheese formed into a hot-dog shape and then slowly
petrified on satan’s greasy hamster wheel all week. It looks like a
turd fossil. One bite is too much. One bite is two too many. There are
some sacrifices I’m just not ready to make—I don’t care how cheap
your Frankenstein-monster burger log is.
It’s been fun, fast food. See you in 600 years. Or hell.
