I remember the first time Papa brought me to the institution. “Welcome to the Golden Arches,” he said with finesse, “this is a restaurant where we have to queue to see the menu.” I took in the bustling crowd, inhaled the fetid smell of grease and MSG and clapped my hands together. “Ah Papa, is this what the American Dream is about!” I exclaimed with utmost fervour.
And despite the lack of garçons, this eatery was most genteel. Oh how they shredded the potatoes so uniformly and then gave them a hot oil bath, from where they emerged victoriously crispy. Behold the dexterity by which they assembled a bourgeois sandwich: bun, sauce, meat, veggie. Poetry! And the effervescent jolt fizzy drinks gave to my dreary day. Oh how I longed to experience that at least every fortnight.
I am back again today, at the open doors of McDonald’s, as a mature adult. My jaded palate has been educated by the kaleidoscope of spices from the souks of Marrakesh, the chance encounter of game meat in the Appalachian Mountains, and a sliver of salamander meat in Kyoto. I am back again because, at Christmas, McDonald’s had lured me with a merry assemblage of their exalted burgers paired with the comme il faut side of truffle fries.
And by golly gosh, my oflactory nerve was hit with a redolent Brummagem substitute for truffles as soon as I stepped into a franchise. I even enquired the kindly soul who manned the money boxes, “Excuse me, are you using the Italian tartufi nero from Piedmont or the Perigords of Dordogne for your truffle-flavoured fries?” Only to be rewarded with an evil eye and an unwarranted head to toe scan.
It was the most peculiar adventure — I had to put my Franco fries in a brown bag, unleash a packet of robust salt and shake it in a simple but vigorous up-down manner, without making eye contact. And when all that salt had enveloped the epidermis of my Russet potatoes, I simply had to relish my hard work and what greeted my tastebuds left me gobsmacked.
How is it possible that McDonald’s could replicate the scent of tartufo but all I am left languishing is the taste of common garden garlic (with a hint of rebelliously tart onions). Ah, you tricksy hobbitses! I howl in internal damnation.
Pained and betrayed, it was time to move on to the two capital burgers. The no-nonsense server told me they were called the Clubhouse Burgers, and they came in charming chicken and boisterous beef — what a delight! I had ever so many fond memories eating clubhouse sandwiches in Geneva with my double-barrelled surnamed friends.
The grilled chicken was so bold but placid in my mouth. Crucially, there was no space for a rotisserie, so what’s the secret to this delectable chicken breast? Perhaps it was brined with Himalayan salt and dusted with some magical shoyu? It was good on its own, sans the ratchet caramelised onions, bastardised bacon, and uneventful marshy lettuce, which I banished from sight.
I would like to give a good reprimanding to the boeuf burger, or ‘The Impostor’ as I call it, for it is nothing more than a glorified cheeseburger. Do not tell me this is the cheese from the land of the Swiss, for it is not. Do not tell me that this is the meat of Angus, for it is not. Do not tell me that a respectable turkey has died for that abominable bacon for it will hurt me. Do not put anymore ratchet onion in my burgers for it will disturb the zen of my stomach. My friends, I say choose le Coq burger instead.
“My good lady, I must now wash down my palate with something sweet and cold,” I ask of the honourable employee of Mr McDonald and I was swiftly dealt with. A tray of two desserts, one a classic in its own right, and the other one which I embarrassingly mistake for an Eton mess, I will not dignify with a label.
I find that it is called a Red Velvet McFlurry and it looked like a unicorn murder scene. In the wonderful world of Harry Potter, I learnt that unicorn blood can revive a dying person but they shall live a cursed life — and perchance, I was cursed to consuming the pastel pink wreck which tasted of play doh, littered with age-old cinnamon.
Red Velvet acquired its name and colour from the boiling of beets but I am afraid there is no English beetroot present here, my friends. It is mere colouring, the same red that reminds me of when I went hunting for the most dangerous game: Man.
Well, when feeling cross about food, partaking in an Americana classic — the Coke float — comes well recommended. As I drowned my sorrows with a gentle scoop of cold, sweetened creme fraiche reminiscent of Devonshire cream slowly seeping into a tall glass of Coca Cola (what ever is in Coke? *lofty laugh*), I let the sadness leave my body. We are what we eat, and if it makes you downcast and woebegone, you shall stand up and say, “Never again” with your chin in the air, and your chest puffed out. Adieu tristesse, adieu.
Le Cheap Gourmand is an original Coconuts Singapore series offering grandiose reviews of food you can actually afford. Got an idea about something we should pursue? Tweet us!
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Photos: Delfina Utomo
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