Arnold Pretzel Rolls

There is no God.

Or rather, the God we currently have now inexplicably hates pretzel rolls. Atheistic blanket statements aside, I'm pretty sure that part of my life's mission here on earth is to find the best pretzel roll man can possibly make. No pressure, though. I've been through frozen pretzels stuffed with more crap than Adam Richman, pretzel hot dog buns loaded with expensive edible accoutrements, pretzels topped with crustaceans, and disappointing pretzel rolls. I'm all pretzeled out and I still can't find the perfect bread.
To me, the ideal pretzel roll has a foot in both worlds, despite being a freakish monster belonging in neither. It is kissed with a hint of tinny, metallic goodness on its crust and is almost certainly boiled prior to baking, to ensure an airy, yet chewy inner surface that is porous enough to accommodate to even the gooiest of toppings, but yields to a firm bite without vomiting its contents all over the plate. Rock salt mandatory, toasting optional. An idyllic one-two punch at home with ham, mustard, and little else, or with a gluttonous number of toppings. Needless to say, they are freaking perfect, elevating a mere sandwich to a more complex and Bavarian plane. And to date, I had to rely on luck and intense menu research to find these little suckers. Until...not.
Yes, it looks like I meant "now" but it's not "now" because I have to wait. Yes, I peed myself when Arnold's came out with these two days ago and my mom brought them home. And no, these are not the droids we're looking for. Sigh. Despite showing a promising amount of homemade homeliness, these just weren't up to snuff. Six rolls to a bag, with 190 calories each, they appear to be hefty and even slightly irregular from roll to roll, offering charming variations in the waffled base and slits on top. Quite a promising start.
Unadorned, they were bland. Adorned simply, the pretzel's natural charms were squelched. Suffocated under the weight of a stupid amount of toppings, they disintegrated. God damn it. We were so close, Arnold's. We could have had it all. Unfortunately, these just didn't cut it. To the touch, they are light and airy, a little too light. White bread light and Vanilla Ice white with a squishy and uniformly bubbled core. A small bite yielded a sweetly flavored crumbly interior and thin, pliable crust with a hint of alkaline tang from the baking soda. It wasn't chewy at all and had the texture of a thin slice of sandwich bread rather than a crusty roll. Most of the salinity was overpowered by the breadiness as there was no other supplemental salt source, like a scattering of rock salt on top of the roll, to boost its flavor.
The least offensive way to eat this is with a little salt and butter, much like my bagels. This way accentuates the pretzel's natural flavor the most, but still falls prey to the plain bready texture. There wasn't enough irregular definition in the bread's cell wall to allow the butter to melt into any nooks and crannies, and it floated on the top after melting, barely penetrating the surface and leaving the top part soggy and the bottom part flavorless. Were it not for the appeal of the salt coaxing the tinniness out, I wouldn't bother eating this as toast.
As a sandwich, I figured this would be a little more successful. And what better way to do it than to do a balls-to-the-wall crazy condiment orgy on a bun? Do or do not, there is no try, after all. The Italian Job featured condiments best suited to a good bun with no margin of error. If it was a good pretzel roll, it would work. Anything else would disintegrate under the weight of so many sauces. With hot pepper relish, mustard, mayo, Tabasco, ham, American cheese, mango and ginger Stilton 'cause we fancy, arugula, fennel slivers, and freshly cracked black pepper, the Italian Job ain't nothin' to muck with.
And unfortunately, after I removed this ornamental steak knife, all hell broke loose. This is not the right bun for the job, folks. Not in the slightest. See that distended yellow-hued smear on the starboard side of the sandwich? That's the sauce seeping through the bread, sponged up by the fluffy interior. Arnold's, you are a failure.
Bam, she falls apart as soon as I look at her. Another one for the vaults. Successful as a roll, perhaps, but as a pretzel, you're an absolute shame up there with Glitter, Gilbert and Sullivan, and the InstaHang. Looks like it's back to the drawing boards for the time being. I appreciated the initiative on part of Arnold's, but for God's sake, if you're going to go out on a limb, try not to make the product so utterly unappealing that people won't ever want to eat its inspiration again.

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.

San Matteo Panuozzo, New York, New York

I know most of you already know this, but to some, it may come as a bit of a culture shock. Olive Garden is not Italian cuisine. I'm a quarter Italian. Keepitcoming is half. True to my blasphemous self, I'm admittedly quite happy when I'm noshing on pasta laden with thirty kinds of cheeses or a thick piece of reheated pizza oozing with oil, but Miss Love is harder to please. When Birra Moretti offered us the chance to enjoy pizza and beer in Manhattan, we couldn't help but oblige. We chose a small cafe on the Upper East Side, San Matteo Panuozzo, a squat cafe filled with wine bottles, speakers blaring Raphael Gualazzi (Italy's answer to Michael Buble) and housing a massive wood-fire pizza oven in the back- no small feat for a restaurant the size of your average Manhattan studio. Owned by brothers Ciro and Fabio Casella, the restaurant is just over a year old.

In the vast, dense world of New York pizza, I can proudly say this is some of the tastiest I've had the pleasure to sample. Then again, I'm a Connecticut native, so take my words at face value. But I've traveled around Italy, and eating this brought back memories of the flat, fragrant, chewy pizzettes offered in cafes all around the country. This is definitely the closest to authentic Italian pizza I've had since voyaging abroad, where the toppings are applied in an almost scientific sense, in moderate and careful doses across the dough- a personal favorite with a charred, chewy crust and moist interior. Despite taking a back seat to the restaurant's signature specialty, the panuozzo, the pizzas are not to be ignored. We tried two, the Arechi, with roasted butternut squash and smoked buffalo mozzarella, and the Salsiccia e Friarielli with broccoli rabe, Italian sausage, and mozzarella made fresh daily by Fabio himself. Each pizza carried an ample amount of toppings, yet not so much that the crust was overwhelmed, and was crispy and charred on the undercarriage, a cross between my beloved New Haven pizza and the soft Manhattan slices, and were cut into four pieces. Personally, I found these a hair too large and deceptively filling, but hearty and rustic to behold.

We ate all of these with Birra Moretti, an Italian pale lager dating back to 1859. For me, an ever-ambivalent beer taster, this was a fantastic choice to pair with our pizzas. It transitioned seamlessly from the smoky pizza to the sweet, rich panuozzo, with a strong, forward flavor and a clean finish. And with that, I have exhausted my knowledge and capacity to describe beer.

Of these two pizzas, we were smitten with the Arechi, with its host of comforting, autumnal flavors. I was initially afraid that this would be a drier pizza with chunks of cheese and pieces of squash scattered haphazardly, but the comingling of flavors was so much more complex than that. Acting in lieu of sauce, the squash was pureed on top, absorbing a dual layer of charred smokiness from the natural smoke in the cheese and the crispy crust below, with rich natural sugars from the vegetable and a sweet, underlying smokiness. The cheese provided even more meaty flavor, with a creamy texture and stringy consistency. Speaking as a self-proclaimed meatatarian, I'd give up pepperoni for this any day of the week. It executed the perfect combination of flavors typically associated with the season of fall and left a lingering, sweet flavor in the mouth long after each bite.

Our second pizza was a more classic favorite, sausage and broccoli rabe. Compared to the slew of flavors represented in the Arechi, this was a more understated and seemed to lack the delicate balance of proportions of the former. The homemade mozzarella was an absolute joy to eat, with a creamy, firm texture and a slight salinity. This was a good pizza, but didn't strike me as artful as the first. There were a few textural components that didn't seem to work as well with the crisp crust- the broccoli rabe was plentiful, yet exuded a significant amount of moisture that soaked through the crust. The sausage was also tender, yet moist, which contributed to the somewhat slippery nature of the slices. The flavor was tasty, with the earthy, bitter greens cutting through the spices in the sausage, but was subdued overall, and left us longing for a small shake of red pepper flakes or a few slices of hot pepperocini to remove some of the flatness.

We also had the pleasure to sample one of San Matteo's flagship entrees, a pork panuozzo. The panuozzo is a sandwich native to the town of Gragnano, near Napoli, and is a beautifully executed cross between a plump panino and a calzone, made from a loaf of fresh pizza dough quickly baked in their pizza oven, whisked out immediately after cooking, and stuffed with fresh toppings. Ours included house-roasted pork, more homemade mozzarella, and arugula microgreens.
This is no ordinary sandwich. For starters, it weighs about three pounds and contains roughly four regular sandwiches' worth of filling. The pork slices are massive and put Boar's Head to shame, with a thick, tender middle and addictively crispy strings of skin curling around the outside of each piece. The tender greens added an element of crispy bitterness to the sandwich and the mozzarella bound the entire sandwich together around the crispy, fluffy sandwich dough. What a phenomenal thing to eat. We each finished one of the four slices and took the rest home. Speaking from the point of view of the person who ate the remaining two slices for both lunch and dinner yesterday, this panuozzo got better each time I bit into a thick, savory slice. If I had my druthers and my stocks tied up in Hathaway A, I'd have one of these shipped in every day for lunch.

We ended our meal with two fresh cheeses imported from Italy and a delicious espresso. Fabio, who also works as an Italian foods importer, assured us that these cheeses, a fresh ricotta and burrata, were as fresh as we could get. Nobody doubted him. The burrata released a creamy midsection out of a firm outer shell of chewy cheese with a salty, creamy flavor and a tender consistency. The ricotta stole the show, though, molded and densely packed into an upright shape far different from its wet, calzone-filled counterpart. This ricotta was our favorite, and with its light, crumbly texture, made a tempting proposition as a stand-alone meal spread atop our pizza crusts. After, we were simply too full to partake in any additional confection, but if a treat had been offered with this ricotta as a key component, I would have found some room in my stomach.

With a traditional espresso bidding us farewell into the balmy night, we left San Matteo Panuozzo with full stomachs and beaming smiles, dreaming of the leftovers of the present and dinners of the future. Again, I know I'm not the be all, end all word on New York pizza, but trust me on this one, this is the place to go when you want to feel like you're eating in a gentler, kinder city. It doesn't get friendlier or more intimate than this.

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.

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!

BK Minis: Original, Cheeseburger, and Chicken

I don't know if I've ever told you guys this, but I was diagnosed with Assburger's Syndrome a few years back. My family recalls dismissing my odd childhood quirks, but now knowing this, has discovered that it all makes sense. My obsessive nature for cataloguing and researching the various breeding habits of the Wagyu cattle, the two-step burger flip technique I patented and published in Burgher Quarterly at the age of five, my valedictorian speech at high school- "Some may go on to eat burgers. Some, to make them. But you, as you stand here on this bright, sunny day, go forth, denizens of Branford High School, and hold that spatula aloft!"
After being booed off the stage that day, ground beef pelting my mortarboard and gown, it suddenly occurred to me that I wasn't normal. Other kids were satisfied with the ordinary, with dry, tasteless burgers from chains. Burgers stamped out in perfectly circular forms from molds. Burgers that they could identify with. In college, I flourished. I found dry-aged Kobe burgers and regional specialties, but still, a persistent thought rang in the back of my head. What is it like to know and love a normal burger? This thought haunting my every move, I finally decided to go into my local Burger King and put this case to rest.
The BK Mini appeared to be the latest trend, along with commemorative Amy Winehouse steins and Justin Bieber skin masks. (Oh, the Google results we'll get for that.) Offered in a pack of four, the faithful employees of Burger King misunderstood my request in asking for one of each burger. Twelve minis later, and I was out the door. BK has recently employed the usage of a special, plastic-lined burger carrying case, not unlike some of Prada's recent wares or that of the White Castle Crave Case. Nice try, but unfortunately, it makes Burger King look like a Guitar Hero champ attempting to go up onstage and jam with Walter Becker of Steely Dan. Similar, but obviously and pathetically inferior.
Each burger variety comes in a pack of four, intentionally constructed (at least at my local chain) to annoy the fuck out of you with every step. The buns are stacked one way. These must be torn apart. And the burgers are layered in the opposite direction. These must also be torn. It ends up looking like something you'd want to feed through a catheter instead of eating, further propelling my theory that it would be much easier and a propos to eat the entire burger foursome out of its provided trough without using your hands.We'll start with the hamburger. All of the burgers had this same level of haphazard placement, as though they'd all been through Hurricane Katrina while their makers were in the middle of watching Cats on PBS. Seriously, how hard is it to match shapes together? Preschoolers don't even have trouble with that anymore. I requested this without cheese, and received it without cheese, but tasted the unmistakable tang of partially melted American in each bite. I cannot tell you how disturbing this is. Why would a simple burger taste like creamy, chalky cheese? It was creepy. When the cheese flavor faded away, I was left with a dry, chewy piece of beef and a slathering of ketchup and pickles. The two condiments were poorly chosen as each was acidic and sweet and thus doubled up on the saccharine flavor of the burger. A few raw onions would have been preferable, hell, a smear of their zesty sauce would have been better than these. The bread was strangely sweet and too soft for the burger. It would have been more appropriate for a breakfast sandwich or for usage as toilet paper for those with sensitive needs.
I figured the cheeseburger would be better as it would use that cheesy flavor to its advantage. Not really the case, unfortunately. Most of the cheese was painted all over the side of the box. In this burger, the beef was just as over-cooked and rubbery, but thankfully, the ketchup and pickle candy was tempered as a result of the blanket of cheese. These were extremely dry despite having a copious amount of condiments layered on top. The beef must have been soaking up all the moisture. What kind of hellspawn could create this?Oh yeah, that's right. Burger King. There's a reason the King's eyes looked so dead. May he rest in peace. The last of the minis (thankfully, BK knew they'd be attacked by ninjas and Jersey Shore wannabes if they dare called them sliders) was the chicken mini, which I was hoping would be a facsimile of the chicken mini from Chick-Fil-A. Well, it wasn't. Sadly, it was the best of the trio, which is like saying "Come Sail Away" is the best Styx song. Everybody loses. This particular sandwich brought back all of the painful memories and tense lunchtime trades of the 4th grade without field trips or Pizza Friday. You know the flavor like the back of your tongue. That thin, overcooked, spongy chicken patty glopped with mayonnaise. The sole mini I ate was cold and stringy in the middle with a texture like a rubber ball. The pickle was lost in the overall suckage of this sandwich, leaving behind a texture and nothing more. It was moist on the inside, though, that being its only saving grace. I was asked if I wanted cheese on these. Anything else on top of these would be adding fuel to the fire.I applaud Burger King for trying something new, though in the year 2011, the trend of "new" things seems to be more like rehashing old things that nobody liked in the first place, and remarketing them as new. In this dark time, I find myself missing the 2010 "new" items, where "new" was just an excuse to make weird-ass shit and sell it to people, daring them to consume it. These are just another product sealing the fate of mediocrity in fast food (what a surprise) with gluey cheese and sticky buns. Damn you, Burger King. Bring back the BK Baguette.
For now, these will live in The Freezer of Failed Expectations, on top of the Refrigerator of Truth and Condiments, where they will live out their days wishing they were frozen White Castle sliders before meeting their fate one drunken evening when I mistake them for actual burgers. They will be joining the ranks of similar eateries, like The Suburban. Thank god I'm not burgertypical.