Make mine an extra-large
Food bites in America are getting bigger, but are they better?
I had dinner at a restaurant called The Cheesecake Factory the other night, on the rooftop of a tall building in downtown San Francisco, overlooking the city square. Now I’m sure you, gentle reader, are wondering why any dining establishment would choose to put the word “factory” in its name. Don’t restaurants usually pride themselves on being exclusive and small, their dishes lovingly handcrafted and presented to be a joy to behold and consume? Well, yes, but this is no ordinary restaurant, it is an American institution. The same Protestant work ethic that drives the capitalist engine at the heart of the country also dictates the way some of the restaurant chains operate. It has made the McDonald’s arches the most famous corporate symbol in the world, and the dessert menu at the Factory the dining equivalent of shock and awe. Cheesecake can indeed be a weapon of mass destruction.
Bigger is better in America. It is a broad open land, where everything seems larger than anyplace else — the sky, the great plains, the houses, the cars, the roads, the portion sizes on your dinner plate, and the diners themselves. The US is now one of the most obese countries in the world, and it’s easy to see why. The gravy boat that came with the steak I ordered actually looked capable of putting out to sea. Portion sizes have been steadily increasing over the past few decades, as food has become cheaper and ever more plentiful. I’m told that the average croissant in America is three times the size of its Parisian equivalent. I tried to confirm that with some French friends, but they were arguing about cheese when I met them, and after a few hours of trying to get a word in edgewise, I gave up.
The zenith of the industrial food movement is, of course, also one of the crown jewels of American ingenuity — the drive-through fast food restaurant.
It combines the speed and efficiency of the assembly line with the convenience of a home delivery. If a man’s car is his castle, then the drive-through is his loyal chef. This is food at its most elemental — nuggets, chunks, and slabs of stuff barely recognisable as edible, wrapped in disposable paper containers, and designed to be eaten with one hand on the wheel. A friend who grew up in America during the boom years of the fast food industry once told me that she was disgusted by her first sight of an actual cooked fish because her only previous encounters with fish as food were when it was in the form of fish fingers. I used to think the ‘fast’ in fast food referred to the speed with which the food was prepared, but it could also stand for the speed at which it is consumed. This isn’t food to nibble on, but to guzzle with gusto.
Which brings me back to my dinner. There is a time in a man’s life when he has to face up to his demons, take the bull by the horns, cleanse the Augean stables, and so on. I ordered the cheesecake. It was wondrous to behold, and I quailed momentarily, overcome with doubt. But then I attacked it with gusto, and though it put up a worthy fight, I finally emerged victorious. It must have done my self-esteem a world of good, for when I finally walked out through the restaurant doors, I felt like a bigger man.
(Papi Menon is a writer and technologist based in San Francisco)