The End of Baconmania

First, there was Bacon Salt. That was harmless enough. Then came its
inevitable progeny, Baconnaise—like
Bacon Salt, only with
mayonnaise. Then, in quick succession: bacon maple doughnuts; gummi
bacon; bacon-flavored lip balm; chocolate-covered bacon; bacolicio.us, a URL add-on for superimposing
a photo of a strip of bacon onto any webpage; the Wendy’s Baconator
(self-explanatory); and the Bacon Explosion, a bacon-wrapped loaf of
pork sausage that was the subject of an 1,100-word article in the
New York Times. Not to mention bacon vodka, bacon tattoos, the
bacon bra, bacon-flavored dental floss, and bacon bandages.

For a while, loving bacon was the anti-foodie food trend:
snobbery (what, you don’t like BACON? I guess you’ve never had the good
stuff) disguised as egalitarianism (everyone can afford it; everyone
loves it). Ostentatiously declaring one’s love for, and consuming large
quantities of, bacon (and its partner-in-trend, pork belly) became a
sign of joie de vivre, an indication that you were spontaneous, fun, up
for anything. Suggesting that a battered, deep-fried, bacon-wrapped
bacon sandwich might not be the subtlest or most enjoyable food
experience, conversely, meant you were a killjoy. And suggesting that
massive bacon consumption might have health implications made you a
food Nazi—one step up from a granola eater or, worse, a
vegan.

Thankfully, baconmania has almost run its course. Trends inevitably
go through their phases—early adoption, buzz, general excitement,
overexposure—and bacon is in its terminal stage, clinging to
relevance, grasping at any opportunity to cash in on its dwindling

cachet as its 15 minutes come to an end. (Swine flu is not
transmitted via pork consumption, though it doesn’t make it sound very
appetizing.)

One such opportunity was the recent
“Baconopolis!” a Tom
Douglas–hosted event at the Tom Douglas–owned Palace
Ballroom, featuring Tom Douglas–branded bacon-related
door
prizes and 10 “bacon-enhanced bites” produced by Tom Douglas
Restaurants. Several hundred people paid $20 a head to line up for
bites of greasy bacon tempura; bacon-spiked, mayo-based pea salad;
miniature bacon, peanut butter, and banana sandwiches; breadless BLTs;
and so forth.

The snacks were fine, if totally uninspired—pork and beans may
indeed be better with quality bacon, but they’re still pork and beans,
and if you’ve had one forkful of carbonara, you’ve had them
all—but after eating 10 supersalty bacon snacks, I felt
dehydrated, not deeply fulfilled. Maybe, in different hands, an
ingredient like bacon could have been used to gentler effect—I’m
thinking Fran’s chocolates with salted bacon, say, or miniature bacon
waffles with syrup—but Baconopolis! was everything that
superfluous exclamation mark implies: loud, flashy, and
unsatisfying.

But people weren’t really there for the food—they were there
to profess, with their presence and by making some noise, their LOVE!
OF! BACON! The crowd—well-dressed late-twentysomethings in
standard-issue Belltown uniforms (tight jeans and heels for the ladies,
polo shirts for the men)—had all the affected enthusiasm of late
adopters, like when your parents started texting you 20 times a day or
when Seattle hipsters discovered kickball. I like free stuff as much as
anyone, but does a $5 bacon wallet and a trio of Tom
Douglas–brand spice rubs merit screaming as if you’ve won the
lottery? (One woman, upon winning a bacon-and-eggs shopping bag,
screamed so loud she prompted Douglas to quip, “We have a squealer! A
BACON squealer!”) I get it—bacon tastes good—but it isn’t
so uniquely delicious, so superlatively perfect, that it needs its own
party, much less its own lexicon (“baconopolis,” “baconitis,”
“bactionary,” etc.).

Bacon can be wonderful, in its place—as a side order with eggs
and grits, for example, or sprinkled over a wilted spinach
salad—but there’s only so much of it I can (or one should) eat at
once, and that’s not much. I’ll take a nice piece of mellow
soft-ripened cheese or a fresh radish dipped in butter—or, hell,
a bowl of red beans and rice cooked with plain-old salt pork—over
a fatty, greasy hunk of bacon any day.

And soon, so will you. Take off the “I Love Bacon” shirt, cancel
your trip to Baconcamp, and go eat a piece of celery. It’s over.