by Jim Gaffigan
INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
The term “ethnic food” is relative, of course. Germans don’t think of German food as ethnic. I guess ethnic is code for exotic or unfamiliar food. I grew up in a small town in Indiana where my father’s favorite ethnic restaurant was a place called Giovanni’s that sold exotic dishes like spaghetti and chicken parmesan. I was raised on Wonder Bread, which is probably the whitest of the white breads. Frankly, I’m not even sure if Wonder Bread is bread. I don’t think bread is supposed to catch on fire or be used to remove makeup. Anyway, my point is, I grew up thinking most food was ethnic food.
Asian Food
Asian food, or as 60 percent of the Earth’s population refers to it, “homestyle cooking,” is exotic, diverse, and amazing to me. Understandably, there are innumerable varieties and styles covering the enormous and culturally varied continent that is Asia. Having only a couple of paragraphs dedicated to Asian food is a little obnoxious, but then again, this book is titled Food: A Love Story. Not Food: An Anthology. Here’s what I love about Asian food.
Thai
The best Asian food is undeniably Thai food. Congratulations, Thailand. I’m sure as a country you were waiting to learn what an out-of-shape pale guy from the other side of the planet thought of your food. I think Buddha was so peaceful and fat because of the Thai food. There are almost too many good dishes coming from Thailand. Pad Thai, Massaman Curry, and tons of other stuff I only know as numbers on a menu all come from Thailand. The Thai even figured out a way to make string beans delicious. The Thai combination of sweet, sour, hot, and spicy is incredible, really. I would be so fat if I lived in Thailand or near a Thai restaurant. Oh wait, I do. Well, at least now I know why I’m so fat.
Indian
I entirely agree with the Hindus in their belief that cows are sacred, yet for some reason beef is rarely an ingredient in Indian food. Thank God I’m not Hindu. Beyond a doubt, Indian food is the best non-beef food on the planet, which I feel is almost an impossible task. Indian food is either on the edge of too spicy or lethally hot. It’s no wonder that Indian food also boasts the most delicious variety of breads offered at a single meal. We all know eating tons of different types of bread is the best way to effectively eat super-hot food. I’m a fan of any culture that is brilliant enough to justify this kind of bread eating.
Korean
I’m normally not a fan of restaurants where they ask me to do the cooking. I view fajitas as the IKEA of Mexican food. “Oh you want me to put my taco together myself? Um, okay.” That being said, I’m a huge fan of Korean barbecue. It’s like a self-serve Benihana where for some reason they don’t allow me to toss knives.
Chinese
Given that the Chinese restaurant near my hometown growing up had a Chicago Bears poster hanging in it and no employees of Chinese descent, I like to think of myself as a Chinese food expert. Supposedly, eating Chinese food means you’ll be hungry in an hour. This is a ridiculous statement, because after eating any food I’m hungry in an hour.
My family and I live near Chinatown in New York City. Like most Chinatowns throughout North America, there are live seafood tanks in the windows of many of the restaurants. Often I look at the windows filled with crabs and lobsters swimming in murky water and think, Do you want us to come in there, or are these sea monsters protecting your establishment? Cause I ascared. I eat a lot of Chinese food. One of the many things I admire about the Chinese is that not only will they eat anything, but they have an uncanny ability to make seemingly disgusting things taste good. The best example of this would have to be oxtail soup. This doesn’t sound that appetizing. “Hey, you know how you’d never eat an ox? Well, how about the tail? Yeah, the thing it swats flies away from its butt with. Well, what if we put that in a murky soup, where you wouldn’t be able to tell what was in it but you’d know there was a tail in there? Sounds good, huh?”
I know what I’m getting.
Chinese food is the most deliverable of all ethnic foods. Sometimes when I order Chinese delivery, it comes too quickly. I’ve been on the phone ordering from our local Chinese restaurant and the food has arrived while I was ordering, “Yeah, I’d like to order the General T … DING-DONG … oh, it’s here already. How’d you know I even wanted … ?” Chinese food seems to be the fastest to prepare but the slowest to eat. I prefer the Chinese restaurants that have the silverware on the table when you arrive, because there’s nothing more humiliating than starting with chopsticks and having to turn to the waiter and being like, “Uh, yeah, hi, uh, I’m too white. Do you have a shovel back there?” Chopsticks are fun, but I’d rather eat than play Operation. I always found it interesting that in China they use chopsticks, but in Russia they use forks. Does it change at the border? Or are there some border towns where it’s mixed? I imagine the different groups don’t get along. “I won’t eat with those fork users!” I could see a real Romeo and Juliet story coming out of one of those fork-chopstick border towns.
I have a lot of respect for the Chinese, and I’m not just saying this because in six months we will all be working for them. The Chinese have a truly amazing culture. Supposedly, three thousand years ago they were performing brain surgery in China. Yet they still haven’t figured out dessert. There are endless food choices on the menu in a Chinese restaurant, but no real dessert. I’m not counting those fancy Chinese restaurants that have sticky buns or that tea ice cream that tastes like a pack of menthol cigarettes. I’m talking about a regular, generic Chinese restaurant where there are typically two dessert options. The first is sliced oranges. “Wow. I don’t want to overwork the kitchen. Oranges? Where’d you get those? Did a schooner just arrive from the Caribbean? Looks like our scurvy is cured, fellas.” The other choice is the fortune cookie, which is not even a Chinese thing, really. Fortune cookies are an American invention, and we gave it to them. The Chinese were probably like, “Uh, we don’t want it.” And we were like, “It’s now part of your ethnic identity.” Part of me feels like the fortune in every fortune cookie should just read, “You are about to eat a stale cookie.” “Hey, my fortune came true!” It’s almost like they wait for the cookies to get stale. “When were these made? 1984? Let’s wait a little longer.” Everyone seems to have the same reaction to fortune cookies. We all think, These things are so silly. What a ridiculous concept … wait, what’s mine say? Like there’s some ancient wisdom in that cookie that will provide guidance for our lives. As if Confucius himself were putting a tiny piece of paper into a tiny typewriter: “Happiness is … (thinks) a long journey. Um, I’ll put some numbers here. Let’s see … 17, 38 (looks at watch), 12. (handing off) Put this in a stale cookie.” I do feel sorry for the baker who created the cookie that ended up being the fortune cookie. He was probably initially pretty proud.
BAKER: Oh, you have to try the new cookie I created. Tell me what you think.
SAMPLER: Okay. (chewing) Interesting. You know what this could use? Paper. This would be good for holding a note. Like maybe for a fortune or a recipe for a good cookie.
BAKER: Oh. How much could I charge for them?
SAMPLER: I’d give ’em away with the check. You got a spit bucket around here?
MY LONGTIME COMPANION
It’s amazing how our attitude toward fast-food places changes over our lifetime. When you’re a kid, a fast-food restaurant is one of your favorite places ever. A stop at a McDonald’s or a Burger King is like a visit to a toy store or Disney World. What’s for a kid not to like? Bright colors, French fries, an indoor playground. You even get a free toy with your meal. No wonder I begged to have my ninth birthday party at McDonald’s. But as an adult, a practical wisdom sets in, and we see fast-food places for what they really are: a place for convenient, mediocre, super-unhealthy food. We view fast-food places like they are someone we used to date. You drive by and look at them like, “I can’t believe I went there.” Then a couple of nights later you find yourself at their doorstep: “It’s late. I’m drunk. How about one for old times’ sake?
”
As sober adults we are embarrassed to eat in a fast-food restaurant. We sit by ourselves hunched over our food in a manner that communicates hurried desperation. “Don’t tell my wife I’m here!” I’m convinced that if ski masks were sold in fast-food places, they would be a bigger seller than French fries.
Most regular restaurants try to set a mood or an atmosphere. French restaurants may have a quaint garden. Some Italian restaurants make you feel like you’ve been transported to a Tuscan villa. The atmosphere in a fast-food establishment looks like they are trying to re-create the environment of a mental institution. The bright lights, the smell of bleach, the employees with the smile and personality of kidnapping victims, and for some reason the furniture is bolted down. “Oh, good, I’m eating in a place that also appeals to a segment of the population that is likely to steal furniture from restaurants.” It almost seems like fast-food places are attempting to stage a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but with milkshakes. They should just make everyone dress in robes. The food is even served in paper wrappers so we don’t try to hurt ourselves.
The fast-food industry knows that many of us don’t want to be seen in their establishments or eating their food, which is why the drive-thru was created. The drive-thru is the fast-food industry’s way of saying, “Look, no one has to see you. Just drive around back, and we will hand you the food out the window. You can eat it in your car.” The drive-thru is a pretty convenient idea except for that final arm stretch you have to do to get your food. I always ask, “Um, can you bring your building closer to my car?”
Of course, every aspect of the fast-food experience is constructed around convenience. In a way they’ve ruined how I view dining in a normal restaurant.
ME: Let’s see, I will order the cheeseburger. (beat) Where is it?
WAITER: Sir, how would you like your burger done?
ME: Uh, right now. Where is it?
WAITER: I’ll place your request with the chef.
ME: Can you have the chef wrap the burger in paper so I feel like I’m opening a present? Or maybe put it in a Styrofoam clamshell and present it like an engagement ring? Then we can do that scene from Pretty Woman. How about it?
The Food
After a lifetime of going to fast-food places I’ve come to the conclusion that the only food that can be prepared quickly is food that is bad for you. Anyone over the age of eight knows eating fast food is a form of killing yourself. I’m still waiting for a burger named “The Euthanasia.” If you are going to a fast-food place, you’re probably not that concerned about your health. The latest trend (or court order) of posting nutritional charts provides us with no new information. “Wait, since when are French fries unhealthy?” The food at fast-food places is so unhealthy, it’s not even considered odd that milkshakes are offered as a beverage with your meal. “Well, I shouldn’t, but I’ll have the cheeseburger and fries. And to drink, I’ll have the ice cream you can drink through a straw. Do you have an EKG machine back there?”
LOOKING FOR MR. GOODBURGER
You can’t talk about fast food without crediting the hamburger and French fries. It’s what fast-food empires like McDonald’s, Burger King, and Wendy’s were built on. Even fast-food places that don’t serve burgers and fries know they are the odd ones. Taco Bell had an ad slogan begging us to “think outside the bun.” The baffling success of Subway was basically constructed on not selling burgers and fries. “Eat Fresh” was a creative apology for not having French fries.
McDonald’s
I like to tell people I go to McDonald’s. As a matter of fact, I like to tell people I go to McDonald’s more than I actually like going to McDonald’s. I just love how people respond. There’s sometimes a shocked silence, like I just admitted I support dog fighting. “How could you?” Occasionally, people give a smirk that says, “Oh, I didn’t know I was better than you.” These pompous responses are because no one admits they go to McDonald’s. McDonald’s sells roughly six billion burgers a day, and there are only three hundred million people in this country. I’m not a calculus teacher, but I figure some of these people are lying.
I have to admit that many times a cloud of depression appears over me when I enter a McDonald’s. In my head I hear the sound of a buzzer, like I got something wrong on a game show. “BZZZT! Not equipped to be an adult.” The worst is when I’m in McDonald’s and I see a friend. I always think, Oh crap, and then, like the brave man that I am, I try to hide behind a garbage can. I’m always seen. My friends never seem to be in there for the food. “Oh, I’m just in here to use the ATM. What are you doing here, Jim?” Not wanting to embarrass and humiliate myself by admitting I’m there for the food, I say, “Oh, I’m just meeting a hooker. He should be here by now.”
We all know how bad McDonald’s is for us. We’ve all read the articles and seen the documentaries. It’s the same message: “Look, McDonald’s is really bad for you. It’s very high in fat and calories, and we don’t even know where the meat comes from.” We all respond with the same shock and disgust right before we bite into our juicy Big Mac. There is a McDonald’s denial, and we embrace it. We all know McDonald’s is like a casino for heart disease. Yet we gamble we can beat the house odds. “I’m feeling lucky. I’m going to double down on the Quarter Pounder. And I’ll raise my digestive system a shake.” No one goes into McDonald’s innocent. We’re walking into a red-and-yellow building with a giant M over it.
DUMB GUY: What’s this, a library? Oh, what a surprise! It’s actually a McDonald’s. Well, I guess I might as well get some fries while I’m here.
It’s hard to be in a McDonald’s and not order the fries. They are that good. I try to rationalize eating them. “Well, these fries are too thin to have calories.” Has your mom ever made anything as good as a McDonald’s fry? Not even close. No sane adult has ever had too many McDonald’s fries. There never seem to be enough of them. You can see confused people in McDonald’s after they’ve finished their fries. They always look around their tabletop like their fries disappeared into thin air. “What happened?” Then they’ll scrounge in the bag for the fry crumbs or that loose fry at the bottom of the bag, or, as I call it, the bonus fry. Sometimes there is even a bonus fry in the bag when you order the apple pie. The bonus fry is the dividend for all the good deeds you’ve ever done. It’s like Jesus is up in heaven and decides, “You know what? Give him an extra fry. He’ll pay it forward.” The bonus fry is never a regular-size fry. It’s always extra long. “Bonus fry, how did I not see you? You deserve your own ketchup packet.” You savor that last fry. turning it into multiple bites. “I’ll catch up with you guys later. I got a bonus fry.” McDonald’s fries are truly that amazing … for roughly about eight minutes. Then the fries turn into something that’s likely not biodegradable. They become edible cold shoelaces. We’ve all made the mistake of reheating McDonald’s fries in the microwave, transforming them into packing peanuts. This of course doesn’t stop me from eating them.
McDonald’s fries can’t get cold, and McDonald’s milkshakes can’t get warm. Once I left a chocolate shake outside for an hour and reality set in. It was definitely not a milk product. The contents turned into some kind of disgusting chocolate mucus. However, by the time I finished the shake I got used to it.
McDonald’s has many strange McProducts with broad appeal, but the oddest has to be the McRib. I’m not sure why a McRib is even called a McRib. There’s no rib in there. The overly processed pork is shaped to look like ribs and then covered in barbecue sauce and two pickles. If the McRib patty’s resemblance to a bloated futon with ripples was meant to be visually disturbing, it worked. I guess they decided against naming it the McPork or the McGlob. If the name or shape weren’t odd enough, the McRib has a strange “here today, gone tomorrow” existence. Like a serial deadbeat dad, the McRib arrives with great fanfare only to skip town without warning.
Children have a strange obsession with McDonald’s. Even kids who have never been to McDonald’s
or seen a McDonald’s commercial want to go there. No one knows how they found out about McDonald’s. Most children’s first complete sentence is “Can we go to McDonald’s?” It’s almost as if children are born with an innate love of McDonald’s. “She has her mother’s eyes and her father’s love of McDonald’s.”
Growing up, I was so used to McDonald’s soft-serve I was disappointed when I first tried a scoop of real ice cream: “Well, this is okay, but it’s too hard. How do they even get it through that pump? Wouldn’t these scooped balls clog it?” The things that appeal to children about McDonald’s are innumerable: the clown, the playground, the colors of a nursery school, and, of course, the Happy Meal. I’m not sure why they call it a “Happy Meal” when it seems to turn children into monsters. “Can we go to McDonald’s? Can we? Well, after that, can we?” Children get a free toy with their Happy Meal. I didn’t even get a napkin at home when I was growing up. We are setting our children up with false expectations. In San Francisco they made the Happy Meal illegal, a decision that caused a backlash because it was a sad day for freedom when a parent no longer had the right to poison his or her own child. The strange obsession McDonald’s has with children is kind of creepy. “Hey kids, come in here and Uncle McDonald’s will give you a toy.” My kids only want that damn toy. On road trips they beg for the Happy Meal, get the free toy, and don’t eat the food. Some “free toy.”
