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Big Mac Attack

Food bringing one to tears, literally, has always been one of my favorite restaurant writing/travelogue tropes. By which I mean, I’m simultaneously jealous of the diner’s ability to feel feelings so strongly and kind of don’t really believe them either. 

Commenters too can post incredulous things, and for this crew it’s the cliche of having to eat a burger after a tasting menu, possibly an American affectation. (The burger, not the hunger–in a pintxos bar in San Sebastián I overheard two Scandinavian men speaking in English about having to get a hot dog after a meal somewhere I didn’t catch.) I have never encountered this problem in my life, and I’ve eaten a few multi-course extravaganzas in my day (though only one so far this year).

For Valentine’s Day the year before last, celebrated the 13th as all rational prix-fixe-avoiding couples should, I did get a Big Mac after a dinner at WD-50 as a joke to both the world and my gastrointestinal system. I wanted to live the double-excess life, if only once. It was fun yet fleeting, especially considering I was moving out my shared apartment the 15th.

I plan to casually document this anomaly when I see it, as evidenced above. Help me out if you spy it too. Together we can  try to reach some understanding with these vocal bottomless pits.

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