The above? $4.95 tops, and very delicious, though I do say so myself.
It’s just…why? No, really, WHY? Why on L. Ron Hubbard’s green earth would you drop ten thousand frickin’ dollars for something that is in your mouth for all of thirty seconds and — Oh, please! Look away if you have delicate sensibilities! — stays in your system for all of twenty-four hours? Is it just for the bragging rights? Sorry, I guess I just don’t need those.
So, there’s the Martini on the Rock at the Algonquin in New York that costs you ten THOUSAND dollars and comes with a loose diamond, there’s Hubert Keller’s five thousand-dollar FleurBurger in Las Vegas, and now, the newest overpriced blue plate special to hit my consciousness, is a roast beef sandwich being served out of Selfridges’ kitchen in London for one-hundred-fifty dollars. This saddens me. I don’t know why, but I sort of thought the Brits would be above such excesses.
The unfortunately-dubbed McDonald’s Sandwich — named for the chef — stacks the purportedly beer-fed, sake-rubbed Wagyu beef with Brie de Meaux, black truffle mayo, foie gras, mustard confit, and some veggies between thick slices of “24-hour fermented sour dough [sic] bread.” In a BBC article, the Selfridges food director is quoted as saying this about the McDonald’s Sandwich, “I think if you are a food lover, this represents good value for your money.” I’m a food lover and I think Zingerman’s range of roast beef sandwiches represent good value for my money.
Look, I love my food. I really enjoy my food. If it weren’t considered taboo, I might just take a flaky piece of Aziza’s basteeya and rub it all over my body. Furthermore, I consider it a wasted meal if I’m not quietly chair dancing by time I lay down my fork for the last time. However, I see no earthly reason why I should go into debt for my food. I see no earthly reason why ANYone should go into debt for their food. Be they Donald Duck or Donald Trump, five thousand dollars is too damn much to pay for a burger. A BURGER PEOPLE! Fine, it comes with a bottle of Chateau Mr. Fuzzypants and is made with Kobe beef, foie gras, and truffles. And there is something about keeping the china on which everything was served, but I’ve already got boxes of wedding china that I don’t unpack more than once a year, so why would I want a single mismatched setting?
Here’s an idea, instead of flying to the place that my father-in-law dubbed the “cultural Chernobyl,” why don’t I take my five grand, fly to France, go to Petrus, drink some wine, and eat some beef and truffles. Rolling hills, lovely cheese, sexy French accents…I might just get a bit more out of it. And if I miss the nicotine-drenched air of Vegas, well, I’ve heard the French smoke a bit as well. As it is, I have absolutely no problem with my new favorite martini. Not only is it smoother than Jesus, but it also manages to not be a dental hazard.
If I were forced to order this Hummer of a burger/sandwich/martini, my only question would be, “So…can I write this off?”