I don’t think I’m a particularly picky eater. I can only think of one category of food I full-on can’t deal with: olives. If I were at a dinner party and the host served a dish fully infested with olives, the battle between my taste buds and my social self-consciousness would be epic. Just thinking about it makes me sweat. And spit.
But what else? I’m not a fan of salmon, smoked or seared or raw, but I don’t think I’d struggle to eat it at knifepoint. I tend to remove the tomato slice from my hamburgers, but I’m learning to tolerate—even enjoy?—little bites of it here and there, more and more, on nachos and bruschetta. I’ve enjoyed a few raw oysters over the last year or so. Chewed ‘em and everything. Saltines and horseradish are my gateway drugs.
I don’t mind the other end of the culinary culture spectrum, either; I can find sustenance in a pinch: ballpark hot dogs. Pretzel hot dogs. Deep-fried hot dogs.
So if my culinary adventurousness is not to be overly praised, per se, neither is it to be dismissed.
And yet I’ve never had a Big Mac.
Way back when I was a Happy Meal tot, I couldn’t do McDonald’s cheeseburgers. I had a thing about American cheese (which I’ve since overcome) (not that there’s much merit in that). The gentle, unobtrusive creaminess of processed cheese freaks me out. See also: avocados. But in adulthood I’ve learned to love both Haas and plastic-wrapped Kraft horror—albeit both need to be paired with something assertively salty and firm to keep them in check. Otherwise, it’s like they’re up to something. I’m still worried those creamy little bastards are angling for some creepy, subversive flavor-groping.
And Big Macs, when I was a child, were like cheeseburgers for grownups. (I had to google them just now to make sure the cheese was automatically included—and no don’t sing the damn song at me I don’t care.) The sheer volume of the sandwich, yes, but also the “special sauce.” Oh, that Special Sauce. A mystery goo whose only identifiable ingredient is relish, a substance that brings dubious tang and horrifying texture to an otherwise creamy condiment? No thank you. No thank you very much.
Hang on, did I compare avocados to pedophile grooming up there? Huh. I…I might have, yes.
Anyway. All this to say, none of my childhood aversions are really factors anymore. I can get behind American cheese. Relish is fine in tartar sauce and Thousand Island dressing—the latter being, essentially, Ur-Special Sauce. I no longer have reason to fear Big Macs. (The scariest thing now is that, according to Wikipedia, Special Sauce is made with “store-bought” mayo, which seems sketch as fuck.) I’m even starting to find them, as a concept, vaguely appealing.
I still haven’t tried one, but where once I’d ruled it out altogether, now that First Big Mac experience feels imminent. And my culinary universe will be that much wider.