Monday, December 19, 2005

What I found at a Brazilian barbecue this weekend, nestled between a piece of bacon-wrapped filet mignon and a mound of pasta slathered in butter sauce, could not be described in mere calories. The expectations for this type of restaurant are simple: there is a threshold, which is basically made of meat. Cross it and you’re golden. But if you partake and discover culinary insight rather than beef brisket, then that is a different dish entirely.

I’m a deludivore, from the order Deludivora, 100 years young pending approval from the scientific community. We’re not talking vegetarian, nor are we talking organic sackcloth and sandals at a People’s Market. Carnivorous? Far from it, because eating off the bone is indeed savage, an uncivilized call to a time when we expressed ourselves with clubs and fire.

The best way to explain things would be by way of conveyor belt. I’m a product of modernity, a child of processed foods weaned on packaged sheen. Show me the McTit and I’m all like, “Hello, and can I introduce myself later?” Now, this doesn’t mean additives–I’ve fairly disabused myself of sugar and its charms, at least before clients started sending Harry and David–and it doesn’t mean goofy names. No Pizza Shooters or Xtreme Chicken Blasters here, never mind a whole Gleetre of raspberry Joymonade. Give me an Angus patty, chicken tenders, or something that went through a factory without fanfare, however, and I’m yours.

Buffets are also categorically disgusting. Given enough plates and enough skill with the communal tongs, you’ll happen upon a disturbing reality. We’re being fattened, maybe by aliens or something, and you can almost hear the tentacles of our invisible overlords wringing. Even so, as long as they process my meats into nugget form, hey.