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David Spates Step one: eat burger; step two: remove pants They're still making 'em to this day. I had
one once when I was a kid and it nearly knocked me cold. I was
so full afterward that I had to remove my pants. I'm talking, of course, of the Wendy's triple
burger -- a three-fourths-pound monument to American gluttony
and bell-ringing cholesterol. I saw it advertised recently, and
it made me think back to that wonderful summer day in 1987 when
I boldly stepped up to the counter and ordered one with mayo,
lettuce, bacon and cheese. Dine-in, please. A burger like that
cannot and should not be eaten while driving. It demands and
deserves too much attention. Top it off with the biggest side of fries
available and a vat of Coke, and I was ready to eat. Only high
school kids should eat like that. When you're a hungry teenager,
you don't worry about cholesterol, sodium and fat grams. All you worry about is stuffing your pie hole.
High school kids are immortal, as if you don't remember. A little
thing like saturated fat doesn't factor into the equation, so
by all means add mayo, cheese and bacon to your three-patty burger.
For me, the lettuce was on board just for the crunchiness, but
lettuce dripping with burger grease, melted cheese, mayonnaise
sweat and bacon remnants essentially ceases all vegetable function. It was probably about 3 p.m. when I ordered
my triple, and I hadn't eaten a thing all day. A growing boy
needs to eat, right? Right. That's what I told myself. Worrying
that a mere double burger might not satisfy my hunger, and after
the I'll-eat-one-if-you-eat-one routine with my friend, I did
it. While the crack Wendy's crew prepared my burger,
I wondered if I'd be able to get my mouth over it. After all,
judging by the illuminated picture menu hanging over the cashier's
right shoulder, the triple stood like the Sears Tower of fast-food
burgers. Four or 5 inches, easy. The three patties each boasted
4 ounces of precooked weight, piled high atop the bottom half
of the enriched-flour bun. Tally it up and there stands a whopping
12 ounces of precooked beef. There'd also be interlaced layers of American
cheese, strategically placed bacon strips, a fresh bed of green
lettuce that looked as though it could have come from Dave Thomas'
personally tended garden and a healthy dollop of Hellmann's finest.
Perched above it all would be the subtly curved
top bun, grilled just enough to give it added stability but not
so much that it crumbled away with the first bite. Basing its expectations on the illuminated
menu, my mind's eye pictured what was soon to be my first-ever
triple burger. Reality, however, was worlds apart. My triple didn't come from a Madison Ave.
studio photo shoot. It came from a greasy griddle a few feet
away, made by kids my own age whose sole purpose of the summer
was to make enough cash for Van Halen concert tickets and to
keep their Maverick filled with gas. My triple was tightly wrapped in waxy paper
and was squashed down to a rather unimpressive height of perhaps
an inch and a half. So much for my concern about not being able
to insert tab A (the burger) into slot B (my gaping mouth). The
patties didn't pile up neatly at precise 45-degree angles relative
to one another, and the one leaf of lettuce had a giant white
stalk through the center. It wasn't what you would call the picture-perfect
burger. But I was a boy who valued function over form,
and my first-ever triple burger performed beautifully. It tasted
great. I ate every bite, not leaving even the super-crunchy lettuce
stalk on my plastic tray. I finished the fries, too, and even
got a partial refill on my Coke. You know how sometimes you don't feel REALLY
full until later? That's how the Wendy's triple works. I walked
out of the dining area feeling pretty good, despite the fact
that I had just consumed enough bovine to, if even for a short
time, place the cow on the protected species list. The spirit
of the cow announced its presence with authority when I got home.
I was immobile. Every bit of physical energy not needed to sustain
critical life functions had descended upon my stomach for digestion
purposes. Remarkably, I maintained consciousness despite feeling
as though I had just eaten two Thanksgiving dinners with all
of the trimmings, pumpkin pie included. (I hate that expression,
"with all the trimmings." It sounds like you're dining
on a Christmas tree. Let's come up with a new cliché to
replace it, shall we? This will be the last time I use it in
a column. I promise.) That was the first and last time I ate a triple burger. Double burgers have come and gone, but the triple burger remains a high point in my junk food history. Just for kicks, I did a little math and determined the triple burger I ate those many years ago contained 1,020 calories, 66.5 grams of fat, 220 milligrams of cholesterol and a staggering 2,100 milligrams of sodium. No wonder I had to take off my jeans and put on gym shorts. · · · |