Soggy spars
Lately, I’ve tuned into the catchphrase “first world problem”. I live in that world, and sometimes the problem is real. No help to those who live in other jurisdictions, but I want to rant. About the lack of choice in menu.
In particular, the menu of a continent-wide restaurant chain with a three-letter name. Specialists in chicken-based products. Close enough; I don’t need to tell you everything. And don’t get started on “that’s not healthy!” Sometimes, a meal isn’t about the nutritional value. Leave me alone on this one. I was hungry. Anyhow, I learned that you can buy a whole range of chicken-based meals, but none without fries.
Not even good fries. I’m sensitive about that. I come from a land where the fried potato is a foundation of the economy. During my five years in university (and fourteen other summer sessions) I lived on an institutional diet where the fry was omnipresent. Now, years later, I only want quality cut, cooked properly, with enough iodized salt to ensure eventual hypertension. That’s not what you get at the three-letter table.
Instead, every order contains a cardboard box of soggy spars. The dog will share, grudgingly. OK, willingly, but the dog is not an epicurian. Even with “sauce”, or red ketchup, or vinegar, these are third-string strings. If I was in charge, the menu would get a real do-over. It’s overdue. As I said, a problem for some. I should resolve to make better dietary choices, but when dark falls early and the fridge is down to jars of mayo, a night out is deserved.
