Once upon a time, I was a food purist — as in one, and only one flavor at a time. New flavors, new textures, new temperatures: all of it scared the shit out of me. As a babe, I was all about bottled Gerber sausages, which, disgusting as they sound, I ate until the ripe age of three. Eventually, I learned to add soy sauce to white rice and introduced the color green into my palette. Broccoli and pandan-flavored bakery items were in the clear, although exotic greens like spinach had to be put on the backburner. Eventually, I graduated to simple, two-flavor pairings like cheese pizza or chicken nuggets[1] with BBQ, but resolutely refused the ludicrous, excessive flavor combination contained in the all-American classic: the Big Mac™.
My parents did their absolute best to make sure we assimilated into American culture. Dad tried his hardest to avoid taxes, Mom quit her engineering job to be a full-time stay-at-home, so I was going to try this Big Mac and love it like apple pie.
We sat at a red, plastic booth coated in fry oil and ketchup residue which melded into the sweat between my thighs and that sad excuse for a dining chair. “Number X–,” they called. My dad headed toward the soda machine to get the first of many free refills, and then picked up the tray carrying that god-forsaken burger. I looked through the Plexiglas window at palm trees dissipating into mirage and a sparse caravan of cars diving down the ramp for the Southbound 5. I peeked through my dark hair at the dad, who was humming that damned Willie Nelson song. He arrived at my table with the bright red tray, and opened up that old-school waxy burger box for me, revealing a flaccid bun, slippery-slidey pickles, half-melted cheddar on a paper-thin ground beef patty, a slice of iceberg, a soggy tomato, and a sloppy serving of Big Mac Sauce.
“Just try, Kim,” my mom coaxed, “you might like it.” She raised her eyebrows at me and grinned, too enthusiastically. Like the smile you plaster on your face at babies when you need them to mimic your glee so they stop crying. I shook my head.
“Mmmmm. Mmmhm. M'it's so good,” my dad exclaimed, using the “s” in “so” to shoot a tooth-gap sized piece of burger debris between my brows.
I shuddered and picked up the bun. I peeled off the pickles, and waxed out the lettuce and tomato. It's bread. It's cheese. It's beef. Which is actually meat, I learned, since a girl told me at school on Wednesday that beef is just a word for cow meat. And then it's bread again. So– it's very much like a sandwich, said my mom. But I'm not exactly fond of those either. In the cartoon illustrated version of my life, we would cut to an extreme close-up of my mouth. Ridged baby teeth lined up across both gums. A charming caricature of myself would put the backs of her palms together and yank open a small gap between maxilla and mandible, digging her toes into the floor of my mouth before sliding her hands and elbows through for a gnarly overhead press. The moment enamel punctured the barely yeast-risen sesame bun, I drew the grimace I had mentally sharpened for the last ten minutes. Yanking the sandwich away from my mouth, I announced, “Disgusting.” I paused. “Chicken. Nuggets.”
Did you hear about Grant and Audrey? No, not Natalie. Grant and Nat were dating for a while, but they broke up. Anyways – Grant. Remember that girl Grant took to prom? Yeah, the fish girl. She left her last boyfriend, not sure what his name was… but, like, she actually left her last boyfriend for Grant you know. Natalie's hella jealous, considering he found a new version of her with blonde curls and bigger tits. Right, but this isn't about Natalie. Guess what time Audrey came home last night? Not until two in the morning. Grant dropped her off in his van. She was definitely glowing. I know, right? I'd never do anything like that. That's disgusting. Just imagine how Peyton's gonna feel when she finds out. I mean, I guess Audrey's gonna be fine because it's really not her fault, but how does Grant live with himself?
“I've seen God, I really have,” she said.
“Where's he at?”
“Au Cheval.”
“Sounds bougie.”
“The burger's only ten dollars. Plus another two for a fried egg, but you have to add the egg.”
“I don't know, dude. I've never been that keen on burgers, I'll probably pass. I mean, I hit the In-N-Out drive thru when I'm home, but I'm not about to go out of my way for some gourmet burger.”
“…”
“Plus, like, I was just a vegetarian up until last week. I think it might be against the code of ethics. Within the statute of limitations kind of thing.”
“You’re not getting it. Close your eyes,” she put her long, skinny fingers across my lids. “Imagine the perfect steak. Think prime rib: grass-fed, bone-in rib-eye with a light exterior char and a perfect medium rare center.” She pulled her hands off, and my eyes blurred to focus on her face.
“But imagine it beat down to bite-sized wads with American cheese melted right into the crevices. You'd never be able to guess it was Kraft. But that's not all. They toast their buns in the salamander.”
“I'll definitely pass on the salamander.”
“Fucking close your eyes again, you keep losing focus.”
I closed them. A perfect steak, cheese melted, buns in the salamander.
“It's an overhead grill for broiling, and you can actually watch the open fire there. It's blue and it makes the buns crispy. Ready for the grand finale?”
“Hit me with it.”
“Dijonaise. Housemade pickles. A flawless, over-easy fried egg with scallions sprinkled over the yolk. You bite down, and all the flavors spill over, soaking up into the bread and falling down over the patty, swallowed again by the bottom bun. It gets on your fingers, but you couldn't fucking care less, because fuck… You've seen God.”
Two missed calls? It's your boyfriend, isn't it? Why don't you pick up? I'm sure he'd like to hear this. Haha, tell him you'll be better next time. C'mon, you don't really have to get back. What's another ten minutes? I mean, you came over here for a good reason. Just say you're out getting a burger.
[1]
I glared at the Gymboree camerawoman and my so-called mother and father. I scratched at the white nylon tutu they put me in, and tugged at the black velvet onesie that was chafing my entire body.
“Please, just smile for the nice lady, Kim,” said “Mom.”
“Chicken nuggets,” said Kim.
“How about photos and then chicken nuggets?” asked “Dad”.
“No,” replied Kim, “Chicken. Nuggets.”