Wendy's "W" Burger

Pros about living in New England: we're awesome. Oceans. Ascots. A distinct lack of accents outside of Bahstahn and New Hampshah. Bleeding heart liberalism is pretty sweet most of the time.

Cons about living in New England: We have roughly four fast food restaurants, approximately none of which are ever test markets. In all honesty, that might be my biggest pet peeve. I live in an area a hair too far away from Maine, which carries the McLobster, and lack an appreciation of the irony that would entail eating a McPizza in freaking New Haven, Connecticut, home of two of the world's greatest pizza restaurants.
So what would normally take ten minutes for anyone living in a normal state took FF and I a rollicking two hour drive to go to a better Wendy's than any of the Wendy's around in the quest for the elusive "W" burger. The "W," surprisingly not provoking any jokes or lawsuits from our former president, is actually a play on words, "double...you?" Well, it partially delivers on that front, with two 2.5 ounce beef patties, two slices of American cheese, a loveable cast of vegetable rag-tags, a signature sauce, and a softer, artisan buttered bun. At its best, a burger with an affordable price point for those whose hunger isn't small enough to be satisfied by the dollar menu and those who just don't feel like breaking out the big guns. At its worst, a glorified and more expensive McDouble. Size-wise, it seemed fairly average for a burger, even a fast food one. Not too big or too small. The first immediate issue with this burger was its scent- as soon as I extracted it from its paper prison, a fake nacho cheesy scent emitted from its core. It was definitely freaky, but I ignored it and forged on, figuring the restaurant itself smelled weird or something. The burger is stacked pretty tall, but the height isn't so unreasonably high that it needs to be squished in order to get a bite of every topping in your mouth. And that's good, because the squishy bun practically falls apart with a stern glare.
As far as toppings go, nothing really distinguishes it from other fast food burgers on the market, aside from the special sauce on top. Wendy's describes this as a soybean oil-based, sweet honey mustard flavored sauce. I would normally be all over this sauce, but the flavor of the sauce was so mild that all that remained was the viscous, runny texture and a slick, oily mouthfeel in every bite. Not an appealing way to start the meal. The veggies were incredibly fresh, with the exception of the pickles, limp, translucent shells of their former selves, with an unfortunately mild, bitter flavor, lacking any acidity. The beef was thin and crispy, with a smoky, moist flavor, but had a chunky, chewy texture similar to leftover meatloaf.
Like the release of Justin Bieber into human society, one small thing led to the utter demise of a greater, more complex being, in this case, the poor quality of the pickles led to the downfall of this burger. Without the pickles providing a much needed foil to the assault of cheese, sauce, butter, and a rich bun, the only tangy bite coming from this was the red onions. It's like putting a 1996 engineless Camry in a drag race with a Ferrari. It just can't compete. The dairy elements in this were truly unctuous- heed that as a word of advice from a shameless lactophile. Alone, or scaled down, they might have been somewhat appealing, but all three milk-based ingredients combined completely overwhelmed almost any additional flavor this burger attempted to have, with the aforementioned popcorn butter residue and gooey nacho cheese flavor absolutely persistent and infused into every cranny of the sandwich.
I can understand what the motives were in creating a burger that allowed a maximum amount of toppings for the consumer with a lower price point, and I genuinely appreciate that. Having a somewhat subdued appetite myself, it seems like something I'd get behind when my dollar menu fantasies were no longer hitting the right chords. But the exuberance works against them with an imbalanced flavor and makes for a sandwich that takes away your hunger not because you're full, but because you're mildly repulsed.

McDonald's Big Mac

Everyone's first time is supposed to be memorable.

At least, that's what Hollywood told me. Note that I didn't say "special"- we can't all have Rick James, satin sheets, and a gorgeous body when we get down to business. I came to the shameful realization one lonely evening that, no matter how hard I tried to push it to the back of my mind, the facts were glaringly obvious. I was a 21 year old virgin to one of America's iconic symbols of happiness and prosperity.

How did it happen? I don't know. It could have been my staunch parental upbringing. A fear of commitment. However it came to that point, I knew it had to change. So I hiked up my jeans, I put on a special playlist of the Indigo Girls, Rod Stewart, and the original Broadway cast recording of Spring Awakening, ponied up $3.95 for what was promised to be a life-changing experience, and dug right in with a paper towel for a napkin. After living 7,714 days on this earth, I was about to have my first Big Mac.

Let me preface this by telling you that this was a completely blind tasting. I never heard the jingle, never took a bite of one, and never smelled one from afar. The closest I came to eating one of these was watching Morgan Spurlock maneuver one into his mouth in SuperSize Me. I was curious. Perhaps even fry-curious. My first gripe with this was the bulky, extensive myriad of plastic and paper packaging. The Big Mac, for all intents and purposes, isn't really that big. With the economy-sized bag and cardboard holding facility, I was a little disappointed to lift out a sandwich no bigger than a small portable hard drive with a somewhat emaciated-looking mere two ounces of beef. But as we all know, it's not about the size of the fries, it's about the motion of the 'Mac. Or so they say.

Flavor-wise, the sandwich is perfectly balanced. And not only balanced, but layered with textures and savory sensations. The first bite was as beautiful as I'd imagined it, with an initially sweet, slightly sour crunch of pickles and onions mingling with the seductively creamy Special Sauce. I was surprised that the beef took such a backseat to the veggies but came together so well, letting the more superfluous elements in some sandwiches take first billing with each bite. The buns were cotton soft, but not chewy, and melted into the meat. I had to admit I was pretty impressed.

Structurally, we're in a whole other ballpark. That was my main beef with this, (please pause to laugh) as by my third bite roughly two minutes in, the sandwich had completely disintegrated in my hands, spewing lettuce shreds and special sauce all over the place. What had once been a regal skyscraper of a sandwich was now a hot, wet mess in my hands. And then, things started to get a little weird. It was like all the integrity of the burger was in its perfect structure and balance. After that one stupendous bite, flaws started to perk up as the sandwich entered Bizarro territory. The flavor of the onions started to linger with a briny, salty aftertaste. The buns got mushy and soggy and tasted greasy and buttery when eaten alone. I lost the flavor of the beef completely.

If the euphoria of that perfect bite had been consistent throughout the sandwich, I'd have no qualms giving it my highest rating. It is, after all, engineered like the McGriddle to max out our pleasure and tantalize us long into the night. But in all things, I value consistency, cleverness, and maximum pleasure (which makes Keepitcoming Love my McGriddle) and in five minutes, this went from amazing to falling apart. It was like making out with a cute guy and realizing that underneath his perfectly coiffed hair and sweater vest, he had a tattooed quote from Twilight on his bicep. Not abhorrent, but not ideal and certainly not what I initially expected.

I soon realized that despite its perfect exterior and legendary reputation, it wasn't perfect. Did I learn from my mistakes? Yes. Do I regret it? Not for a second. I may not ever order this again, but for one brief moment in time (what is now a stunted timespan due to this consumption) I had the Big Mac, and that is a moment that will forever remain special.

McDonald's Pumpkin Pie

Before I start in about my aversion to most pies and my jokes about package warnings, you should know that getting this pie was one of the most singularly awkward experiences I've ever had at a McDonald's, including that one time two friends and I walked through a drive-through after skinny dipping one summer. Or the time Dillinger got out of the car and danced to the Time Warp in the drive through and then ordered as though nothing had ever happened. More awkward than that.

Keep in mind that I ordered this pie at around 10 in the morning while getting groceries for brunch. A little dessert apertif, if you will. While deciding what I wanted and opting out of a morning McGriddle, I thought it would be a good idea to stock up on hot mustards for my next few meals. Like my friend Justin, I've had a torrid and longstanding relationship with the hot mustard. Long story short, the woman at the front would only sell me the mustards once I reassured her that I wouldn't be dipping the pie in the sauce. Not that it was any of her business.

Anyway, I went through all that stress to purchase a product I wasn't entirely keen on ordering. I've never been a fan of pie crust or pies, not since the end of my grandfather's legendary desserts, but I was feeling seasonal today and saw that there was a deal on pies, two for a buck. The pie comes housed in a shell that has a pair of anguished white kids making out on it and says, no less than six times, "CAREFUL- I'M HOT." The "I'm" is what really creeps me out. Not only was this pumpkin once sentient, it implies that, even mushed up and rendered far beyond its original form, it is still thinking, breathing, and generating heat. It can hear you have sex, is all I'm sayin'.

The normally unadorned pie crust is covered in a brown blend of spices, a practice I think should apply with all of McDonald's fruit pies. It greatly enhances the flavor and texture of the crust with a homey ginger, cloves, and nutmeg touch and gives it a little more depth than the typically flavorless crust on their apple pies. For fifty cents, it won't evoke images of a Thanksgiving dinner, but you won't cry as hard eating it alone. The crust was flaky and crisp. With the effort the crust took in coming close to a real pumpkin pie, I was surprised at how much the filling felt like an afterthought. While packed well in the corners and crannies of the pie, the filling's flavor was bland, with a texture and flatness tasting nearly identical to the canned pumpkin pie filling I use in our oatmeal. My suspicions were confirmed when I scooped a spoonful of pie filling out of the nearly empty can and a bit of filling out of the pie. At room temperature, they're practically the same. Normally I'm not a fan of overly sweet fruit fillings, but I know three things if I know anything- I like m'whiskey neat, m'cigs filtered, and m'pumpkin sweet.

While I admire their restraint in a world of Coldstone PB&C shakes and candy, in this case, underseasoning was a detriment and took the focus away from the delicious crust. I still appreciate the effort and variety of desserts McDonald's is putting out. Needless to say, it's a worthy contender in the crop of pumpkin-themed desserts that have been appearing in fast food restaurants and convenience stores and is a classic way to get your cucurbita on.

Domino's Artisan Pizza Italian Sausage and Pepper Trio

I'm a snob. There, I said it. The hard part is over and this post can commence like a meeting of AA with better coffee and no clothes. I'm a big ol' snob and I kind of resent the ironic tone of the Domino's ads and pizza box. "We're not artisans," it begins, as if one ordered Domino's to experience the full throttle perfection of a New Haven or Chicago pie to begin with but just got frustrated with the lack of computer systems and cute boxes. "We don't wear black berets, cook with wood-fired ovens, or apprentice with the masters in Italy." Nor do we trim our plush, black moustaches or refrain from using tried stereotypes, but whatever. I can deal. This is all below a line for your proud pizza parent to sign after its conception. Oy. With this strange marketing concept, eaters start with the knowledge that Domino's, like your single neighbor Chuck and his closet full of lingerie, is desperately trying to casually deny an identity it secretly desires.

But seeing as I'm a fan of all things admittedly artisanal or not, I still wanted to eat one of these. I had neither the cash nor the hunger to order three of these, but did go out on a limb and order the Italian Sausage and Pepper Trio one night. At $7.99, I'm not sold on the price. Maybe because there's a pizza joint nearby that offers a freshly made slice with two toppings roughly the size of an infant for $3, or maybe because I'm wondering if this is a result of the artisan tagline. It's basically their regular pizza in a different shape. I built a medium pizza with the same toppings for an annoying $13.34, so while this is more cost effective, it just doesn't scream artisanal. It would have served two people if we'd enjoyed it, I'm sure. That being said, we did not.

Opening the box, which was unsigned by our embarrassed pizziolo, the pizza was fragrant and thankfully, not dripping with greasy sausage remnants. The whole "tough guy" artisan persona seeps into the ordering system- an eater can take off toppings, but not add anything additional. This pizza came with a red sauce base, parmesan-asiago blend, Italian sausage slices, and green, red, and yellow roasted peppers. It smelled excellent and appeared to have generous toppings. But from the get-go, it was clear that not all the slices were born to be equally delicious.

The bad.

The ugly.

It was incredibly annoying to have the fact that these were carefully hand-made drummed into our heads and yet still find pieces that were half crust with two measly pieces of sausage and no cheese. I understand that a little human error is expected when you employ bored college kids to goof around and make pizzas, but we couldn't eat half of that piece because of all the crust.

The sausage was moist, but the tempting fennel and spice aromas were overwhelmed by the fatty, salty flavor. This was pretty one-noted, and needed some spice. If I could make a replacement to this pizza without fearing the wrath of the artisan pizza bros, it would be the addition of a spicier sauce, red pepper flakes, and replacing the banana peppers, slippery, vinegary pieces better suited to a deli sandwich, with roasted jalapeno pieces. The roasted green and red peppers complimented the sausage in a nostalgic way for me, as my family used to get wonderful sausage and pepper pies at a pizzeria near my grandmother's, but the banana peppers were just a sharp and cloying annoyance. I ended up picking them off.

Ironically, if Domino's enforced the artisanal approach instead of making fun of it, I think they could have a good pie. The topping choices are decent, if uninspired, and the square party pizza style slices are easy to share and portion. I think it's snooty to not allow any substitutions or changes to a reasonable extent, and somewhat of a cop-out to use existing toppings from their repertoire. Instead of not allowing the customers to substitute toppings, how about having toppings exclusive to the artisan pizzas? Marinated eggplant, sundried tomatoes, fried egg, fresh mozzarella or goat cheese and red potato come to mind as things I'd definitely be interested in ordering from Domino's simply because it would be different. By shedding the artisanal values and ingenuity, they stunt themselves in appealing to the every-man. Domino's is an average, mass-produced pizza company. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but if they want to step outside of the box, their customers should be pleased and surprised by the deviation from their norm.

Burger King Peach Granola Sundae

Soft serve ice cream at fast food restaurants is no astounding aberration from the Holy Grail of All Things Caloric. Restaurants like Shake Shack and Culver's have turned it into a feat for the stomach and palate, with gourmet flavors of frozen custard and seasonal offers. And yet there's nothing so quintessentially paired such as the classic hot fudge sundae from McDonald's. Burger King has recently gotten into the soft serve game and sent me a gift card to try all of their new sundaes and shakes. Lacking the resources and time to write a fudge-stained suicide note, I decided to try them throughout the month and report my findings.

Burger King's peach granola sundae is the last and latest of the big three to do their own spin on a seasonal sundae, following the success of the Wendy's caramel apple Frosty and McDonald's caramel apple sundae. Peach granola may not quite reek of fall as much as the other two, but it carries its own special place in the dwindling days before autumn really sets in. It bridges the gap between autumnal flavors and the last days of summer, a season that New England really seems to want to hang onto.

The composition of a sundae is key, as evidenced not only by the confusion in my server's voice when I ordered this, as though I'd come from the King's HQ and made it up on the spot to test her, and also when she made it. While I didn't get a chance to snap a photo of her fatherly manager guiding her hands as she constructed it, trust me when I tell you it was worthy of an after school special. For $1.49, this is a neat little innovation on the part of the King. I think this is the first time BK has used peach as an ingredient, and it proves itself to be a worthy contender to more traditional sundae toppings. However, eating this is not an easy feat. If you've eaten frozen fruit before, whether before making a smoothie or just as a snack, you know how agonizingly cold it is to bite into one of those mushy, sweet pieces. It's the same case in this sundae. Each bite had to be held in the mouth for no less than a chilly twenty seconds before the peaches began to thaw and the ice cream melted. The toppings retained the chill for much longer than they should have.

In this sense, it is worth noting that this is exactly the reason why a hot fudge sundae is so palatable. The counterbalance of hot and cold elements is comforting and adds a bit of variety and when it's lacking in either, it ceases to be. With this, the balance was thrown off, and while the peach sauce had nice chunks of fruit and a sweet, jammy flavor, it was all ignored as I tried to diffuse the cold. Heating this up would be much tastier. The granola, applied in abundance, provided a nice crunch to the sundae, but lost its honeyed nuances in the sweetness of the ice cream and peaches. Eaten alone, it was fairly plain and bland. There never seemed to be enough granola to maintain a strong presence in each bite.

Overall, with a few slight changes to the sundae, I think this could be a strong contender for the upcoming fall season. I liked it enough to try it again, and as a die-hard chocolate lover, my endorsement for anything containing fruit is ground-breaking within itself. At the very least, it's an innovative and different sweet treat than the standard sauce-drenched sundaes, and makes for a delicious seasonal dessert.

New Philly Grilled Cheese Steak Sandwiches at Sonic

Word on the streets (okay, a customer service survey) says Sonic may be rolling out some new Philly cheesesteak inspired grilled cheese sandwiches. A somewhat mismatched combination, but anything with jalapenos and barbecue sauce deserves at least one try. Priced at $1.99 they look like they won't break the bank, either.

Billed as Philly "Grilled Cheese Steak Sandwiches, they start with two pieces of golden Texas toast with two pieces of cheese and your choice of three add-ons:

• Marinated sirloin Philly steak, grilled onions, sautéed portobello mushrooms and two slices of Swiss cheese
• Marinated sirloin Philly steak, grilled onions, jalapeños, hickory BBQ sauce and two slices of Cheddar cheese
• Marinated sirloin Philly steak, grilled onions and two slices of American cheese

Definitely something I'd be willing to snack on!

Free Soft Serve at Burger King!

Burger King is debuting its expanded dessert menu, and you can celebrate the end of summer with a free soft serve cone from Burger King! Until October 9th, anyone who purchases a BK Value meal will receive a free small soft serve cup or cone.

Joining the list of desserts are a selection of sundaes and milkshakes. I've got my eye on the peach and granola sundae. Readers, what do you like to eat at Burger King? I'm absurdly addicted to their Double Stacker. Fatass = WINNING.

Dunkin' Donuts Chicken Salad Sandwich

New England is known for many things- polo shirts, PT Barnum's freak show, and summer homes, to name a few. We're not known for our selection of fast food. On a trip to Maryland a few years back, I made it my personal goal to visit no tourist attractions or interesting places, but to eat at every single new fast food restaurant within a five mile radius. The only real regional place New England can claim ownership to is Dunkin' Donuts. Hardly fast food, but a delightful morning staple or afternoon snack. I personally ate at least sixty thousand buttered bagels and croissants on my morning commute to high school. We had a Dunkin' next door. Brilliant marketing.

Had I not had a terrible aversion to mayonnaise at the time, I'm sure this sandwich would have seduced me out of my eighth period math class. My nostalgia for Dunkin' and need for a quick snack before catching a train led to my eventual purchase of the sandwich. The press release for the new chicken salad sandwich tells me that it's tasty and affordable. I should have known that the emphasis on cost would be its ultimate downfall as far as flavor goes, but with the influence of chicken salad in the fast food market lately, I figured I'd give it the old high school try and eat it while soaring through Connecticut.

Wuddup, Darien?

I was initially skeptical about eating the sandwich on a croissant. Greasy filling and buttery bread did not sound like a palatable combination. And chicken salad on a bagel just seemed inherently wrong, like something I'd make at home in a pathetic, mismatched attempt to avoid buying groceries. You know the type- hot dogs on tortillas, random condiments on Triscuits. The sandwich was average in all respects. You'd think that with the competition from Arby's and Subway, they'd try to do something to jazz it up, but this salad's provenance is clearly from the ever-generic ChickTron 92A. It is industrial and plain, a mere step above Elmer's glue and three steps below school lunches.

The filling was loose and goopy with small pieces of chicken no larger than a penny. There were no vegetables, fruits, or nuts, and while I generally advocate for a meat and condiment only sandwich, chicken salad really needs that extra somethin' somethin' to break up the banality of shredded chicken and mayonnaise. Apparently, that somethin' somethin' was vinegar, and lots of it. It made the sandwich filling ooze in a gloppy paste out of the croissant, which, with its center hole, looked a lot like a pustulating wound. The vinegar was all I could taste in the sandwich filling. Combined with the butteriness of the croissant, a mediocre specimen yet guilty pleasure of mine, it was astringent and overly salted.

Keepitcoming Love now uses this photo and meticulous arrangement of its subject as evidence of my obsession and insanity. She calls it Exhibit C.

As a recent convert to chicken salad, I'm certain that if this had been my formal introduction to all things mayonnaise I'd have run screaming for the hills and not come back until I'd donned a paper SARS mask and latex gloves. Its blandness and oily, sour flavor doesn't quite make it offensive, but if I hadn't been incredibly hungry I'd have had no problem tossing it after a few bites.

McDonald's S'mores Pie

There's nothing worse than having a bad day, unless, of course, you've planned to have an excellent day and shitty things keep getting in your way. It's one thing to wake up grumpy and tired on a rainy morning and have to go to class, but in the case of today, I woke up bright and early, ready to start the day and run errands, only to have traffic set in on the way to run errands, watch a crazy, homophobic homeless woman get arrested at the post office and hold up the line, wait in terror while the internet briefly crashed, and cry as all the soccer moms in Northampton tried to snatch up the last BOGO free range, skinless organic chicken breast deals at the grocery store.

I made a detour at McDonald's on the way back, thinking that at the very least, fast food or a visit from my old friend, Mr. DSM-IV 307.50 could cheer me up. Remember, kids, it's only eating your feelings if you feel better afterwards! To my surprise, I saw a new item on the menu, one I'd seen and lusted over last winter. It was the s'mores pie! Originally debuted in Canada along with a host of other seasonally inappropriate treats, it looked like a delicious way to beat the heat. I figured Adam from GrubGrade must have sent over some LTO vibes after chatting with me on Facebook.

After the grill stopped working due to a surprise rainstorm, thus nullifying my plans to s'more this bad boy while I s'mored, we just ate it at room temperature, freezing a hunk for later. I'm not sure if the glorious wilderness of Western Massachusetts happens to be breeding grounds for special McDonald's test markets or at the least, unloading sites for the excess of Canadian pies, but either way, I felt special. The box informed me that this was indeed a limited time offer, along with a dipped cone a la DQ and a brownie sundae milkshake. When I got this home, it was still very hot and insulated in its pie parka, and it hadn't cracked or oozed at all. The pie was visually attractive, with a stripe of chocolate running down the center.This is a far tastier and more substantial offering than the other pies McDonald's has to offer. The pie crust seemed to be a hybrid of the standard flaky crust with some sort of graham flavoring mixed in, as it had a hint of flavor other than grease and sugar. I liked it. It was crumbly and made a good shell for the filling. The orientation of the innards is a little difficult to maneuver, as like the Arby's Outside-In Cinnamon Bites, the filling is applied in two horizontal parts, bisecting the pastry, rather than combined or one on top of another, like a traditional s'more.

But the inside is excellent for a fast food dessert! We both loved the silky textures of the filling, which was filled all the way to the edges of the pie instead of leaving gaps of crust. The marshmallow had a gooey consistency without being gummy or overly liquidy, and tasted like Lucky Charms marshmallows. It wasn't really a marshmallow cream or a fluff, but tasted like marshmallow dough or something. That had a strong meringue and vanilla flavor in that magically delicious way. The chocolate wasn't so much of a syrup or fudge, but more of a chocolate pudding, grainy, thick texture and all. The flavor was a little bland, but it was even better when chilled in the freezer. The filling seized up to the hardness of a Starburst and the crust's texture became more prominently crispy like an actual graham cracker. For 79 cents or two for $1.39 at my local McDonald's, it was not only a good value but a tasty treat. It wasn't overly sweet or heavy and made for a delicious hot and cold dessert.

Arby's Angus Cool Deli Sandwich

Whenever I'm given the opportunity to check out a restaurant outside of town, I feel like I'm going on a magnificent quest for a sacred object. There are a few key differences. Instead of taking my noble steed, I'm cruising along in Shadowcat, Keepitcoming Love's sexmobile, and leave my panflute and harpsichord mixtape at home in favor of the sensual stylings of Bachman-Turner Overdrive. I like "You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet" because they are obviously talking about my tits.

Today, I, your stout princess, took a drive to Chicopee to get myself to the nearest Arby's. Chicopee is marginally less shitty than Springfield, and it took just long enough for me to justify making a playlist and getting a bite to eat while driving to get food, but wasn't so long that I was disillusioned by the entire idea. The quest was to try the new Angus Cool Deli sandwich, baited by the royalty of Arby's and provided with a Magical Gift Card of Truth and Monies.
Don't worry, I've done this before.

I'm not stupid. I can see that this is an attempt to infringe upon Subway's sandwich empire. And to be honest, if I hadn't thought that this sandwich would literally be the bomb dot com, I would have gone to one of the five Subways in a five mile vicinity of town, forked over my five dollar bill, and watched a show worse than a Tijuana donkey performance to receive a salad inside bread. Seriously. All of those sandwiches are under 500 calories because they stuff them full of more lettuce than a fad diet fanaticist. So I was a little worried. This could have been a covert attempt at astroturfing from my gym, which I'd bumped up an hour to grab this sandwich. "Try our new Cool Deli Salad Sandwich, oh, and do another twenty minutes on the ellipticals, too!" FUUUUUU-
But that wasn't the case at all. When I got home, in record time, I might add, for fear that the sandwich would disintegrate if I didn't immediately consume it, the sandwich was already halfway out of its box and clearly happy to see me. This was a sandwich whose attitude could only be paralleled to a hyped up contestant on Legends of the Hidden Temple. I was initially worried that the acidic ingredients would overwhelm the Angus beef, the selling point of the sandwich and that the icky vegetables would be so gross that I'd have to pick them off and that someday, I'd have a partner who asked me to role-play as Hannah Montana in bed.Honestly, all of these worries were irrational, including my Hannah Montana phobias. This was an excellent sandwich. The Angus on its own is the kind of meat that, if offered in my deli, I'd be happy to eat right out of the package or make a dress out of. It's paper-thin and has a freshly cracked peppercorn flavor, with a moist tenderness and a substantial crust. I really like it. And there is a ton of meat packed inside this sandwich. If I had known there was an Arby's in the neighborhood, I would have wanted to try the Three Cheese and Bacon sandwich. The flavors really corresponded well with this. I think the restaurant really came up with complimentary flavors for both a hot and cold sandwich. In this one, the tang of the vinaigrette and the mayonnaise create a creamy, savory dressing that coats the vegetables evenly. The veggies are acidic for the most part, but are very fresh and crisp within the sandwich.
The bread is crusty on the outside and soft on the inside, and the sandwich is packed efficiently so that every bite is crammed with fillings. While this isn't a foot long, I honestly don't care, because when I get foot long sandwiches, the end inch or inch and a half is usually empty or filled with condiments. Don't be fooled by the rocks that it's got. This way, it's more efficient and consistent from bite to bite. The only ingredient I found to be superfluous was the Swiss cheese. Unsurprisingly, the flavor was buried under the condiments, meat, and vegetables, and just added extra calories. At $5.99, the sandwich fed me for two meals and was worth the price. In completing this quest and consuming a mere 320 calories per half, I can now proceed to my final conquest, the Treadmill of Triumph and Pain, without feeling like I need an extra life or a plus-sized cloak.
Wanna win a $20 gift card to Arby's? Comment and tell me what your favorite item is from there, or what your best road trip was. Hell, tell me how pretty I am. Compose a ballad on Garage Band. After 20 comments, I will pick a winner!