It probably started with the Jack-in-the-Box Ultimate Cheeseburger. I'm sure there were massive, meaty, cheesy burgers served before the Ultimate, but the Ultimate is the first one I can recall being mass-marketed to emphasize its wanton formulation. Meat, cheese and sizzling fat-that's what it was, and is, all about, served in a soft white bun designed to trap and hold all that scrumptious grease for the taste buds. Never mind the tomatoes, onions or pickles—all that nasty, Vitamin C containing stuff was not an option on the Ultimate.
You got it one way, the delicious, cholesterol-soaked way it was designed. Eventually, the people at Jack decided you could get something added to its gigantic burger.
That something was bacon.
Naturally, in the true spirit of free enterprise, all the national burger chains rushed in with massive artery-stoppers of their own and the American nation had to let out its belt a couple notches to consume them. They didn't stop at burgers, either. Denny's offers the Fried Grilled Cheese Sandwich, which consists of three deep-fried mozzarella fingers covered by cheese slices and grilled in some kind of lard, and a macaroni and cheese embellished patty melt.
The above examples aren't just careless dining. They're slut food. Food without any self-respect. Food that invites you to cheat, to wallow in your mindless lust for fat grams.
Not all self-indulgent dishes can be described this way. Huge rare hunks of prime rib, pasta laden with shrimp and Parmesan, New York cheesecakes…these are all delicacies that pack enough calories to put weight on a poltergeist, but they demand to be enjoyed in their proper setting; a dignified steakhouse, an Italian café, served off a doily in a deli. Like an expensive mistress or a call girl with an all celebrity client list, they tempt, but they also demand respect.
Not so the Wendy's Triple Baconator. It's the platinum blonde with her roots showing, wearing fishnet stockings, and sitting by herself at the bar as the clock ticks towards midnight. The question of availability has already been settled.
Likewise, even fast food doesn't have to be consumed at the expense of one's self-respect. Eating a cheesesteak in Philladelphia or a carne asada burrito in San Diego, despite either item's questionable nutritional value, is merely paying tribute to local traditions. You're consuming a massive foodstuff that would satisfy a South Philly stevedore or a Moonlight Beach surfer after a hard morning's effort. They're like the neighborhood girl who's been around the block an extra time or two, but who knows way too much about you for you to risk badmouthing her.
But when you go for the Carne Asada Fries, a bed of deep-fried spuds embellished with cheap meat amid a torrential glopping of cheese and sour cream, you can say anything about them you want. They're the rookie pole dancer at a cheap strip joint where the mildewed carpet was twenty-one years old before you were. Sneer away in spite of the fact that you're sneering at yourself as well. Succumbing to your own insecurities. Admitting you don't think you're good enough for that filet soft as butter, served with baby potatoes and fresh asparagus. Or the rigid self-discipline of a perfectly arranged sushi platter. You don't have the nerve to do more than gawk at a beautiful dish that's secure in its appeal before you make your move for a trailer-trash plate of Bacon Cheddar Cheese Wings.
Go ahead. Promiscuous food doesn't care what other food you've been eating. You can drunk-dial Domino's late at night and ask for a Meat Lover's Special with extra cheese and they'll run right over, just like that ex-girlfriend who, for some reason known only to her and God, never got over you. And now you're thinking maybe she can pick up the pizza on the way and save you the tip money. Booty call plus belly call. You're disgusting. You deserve every particle of the shame you'll feel tomorrow.
You know you like being around food that has been around. You're content that it's just like all the other greasy burgers and three-pound burritos out there. Slut food knows you and your friends talk about it behind its back. Joke about it. Make crude comments about the things you've done to it, and the things it's done to you. Doesn't matter. It's the glory hole of American eating. It's there when you want it.
You just don't want to be seen with it.
You got it one way, the delicious, cholesterol-soaked way it was designed. Eventually, the people at Jack decided you could get something added to its gigantic burger.
That something was bacon.
Naturally, in the true spirit of free enterprise, all the national burger chains rushed in with massive artery-stoppers of their own and the American nation had to let out its belt a couple notches to consume them. They didn't stop at burgers, either. Denny's offers the Fried Grilled Cheese Sandwich, which consists of three deep-fried mozzarella fingers covered by cheese slices and grilled in some kind of lard, and a macaroni and cheese embellished patty melt.
The above examples aren't just careless dining. They're slut food. Food without any self-respect. Food that invites you to cheat, to wallow in your mindless lust for fat grams.
Not all self-indulgent dishes can be described this way. Huge rare hunks of prime rib, pasta laden with shrimp and Parmesan, New York cheesecakes…these are all delicacies that pack enough calories to put weight on a poltergeist, but they demand to be enjoyed in their proper setting; a dignified steakhouse, an Italian café, served off a doily in a deli. Like an expensive mistress or a call girl with an all celebrity client list, they tempt, but they also demand respect.
Not so the Wendy's Triple Baconator. It's the platinum blonde with her roots showing, wearing fishnet stockings, and sitting by herself at the bar as the clock ticks towards midnight. The question of availability has already been settled.
Likewise, even fast food doesn't have to be consumed at the expense of one's self-respect. Eating a cheesesteak in Philladelphia or a carne asada burrito in San Diego, despite either item's questionable nutritional value, is merely paying tribute to local traditions. You're consuming a massive foodstuff that would satisfy a South Philly stevedore or a Moonlight Beach surfer after a hard morning's effort. They're like the neighborhood girl who's been around the block an extra time or two, but who knows way too much about you for you to risk badmouthing her.
But when you go for the Carne Asada Fries, a bed of deep-fried spuds embellished with cheap meat amid a torrential glopping of cheese and sour cream, you can say anything about them you want. They're the rookie pole dancer at a cheap strip joint where the mildewed carpet was twenty-one years old before you were. Sneer away in spite of the fact that you're sneering at yourself as well. Succumbing to your own insecurities. Admitting you don't think you're good enough for that filet soft as butter, served with baby potatoes and fresh asparagus. Or the rigid self-discipline of a perfectly arranged sushi platter. You don't have the nerve to do more than gawk at a beautiful dish that's secure in its appeal before you make your move for a trailer-trash plate of Bacon Cheddar Cheese Wings.
Go ahead. Promiscuous food doesn't care what other food you've been eating. You can drunk-dial Domino's late at night and ask for a Meat Lover's Special with extra cheese and they'll run right over, just like that ex-girlfriend who, for some reason known only to her and God, never got over you. And now you're thinking maybe she can pick up the pizza on the way and save you the tip money. Booty call plus belly call. You're disgusting. You deserve every particle of the shame you'll feel tomorrow.
You know you like being around food that has been around. You're content that it's just like all the other greasy burgers and three-pound burritos out there. Slut food knows you and your friends talk about it behind its back. Joke about it. Make crude comments about the things you've done to it, and the things it's done to you. Doesn't matter. It's the glory hole of American eating. It's there when you want it.
You just don't want to be seen with it.
RSS Feed
