M.
Just looking at the letter is enough to activate burgersome thoughts and salivary pathways in American minds and mouths, so ubiquitous are McDonald’s Golden Arches in the world of handheld convenience meat. The restaurant represents the 0s and 1s that constitute our dietary code: familiarity, economy, caloric density. And though the ‘M’ looms large in American life (and beyond, with 31,650 franchises outside the U.S.), it has barely touched mine. Save for a Coke here and an ice cream there, my only memory of eating at McDonald’s was on a rainy spring day when I was 10. The skimpy hamburger and plastic Olaf toy failed to entice a second visit. But that was a dilapidated drive-thru in Portland, Ore. The people deserve to know: what on earth is Ronald laying down in Tokyo?
And so my team and I flew with Burgerthought Airlines directly to Narita International Airport to pick up the scuttle. The final night of our spring break tour found us cleansed by frequent trips to the public bath and famished from hours of jostling to sludge metal in a subterranean nightclub. A final dive into the mosh pit for posterity, and we scurried up the street to McDonald’s like blood into the beating heart of the Koenji district. The joint was so clean it was more of a Genius Bar than a burger shop, the gleaming tile harmonizing with the gaggles of well-heeled, freshly groomed 20-somethings as they studied (!) and planned their late-night moves. There were scarcely four free seats in the piece. We informed a robot of our hunger, and $5.69 earned me a Samurai Mac, small fry and a medium chocolate potation. Wait—Samurai Mac??
Mmm! Two A5 wagyu patties (okay, not actually) steeped in soy sauce established a surprisingly stalwart foundation upon which the temple of Mac was hewn. Illuminated by glinting winks from the cubed sweet onion, DATEM-enhanced sesame buns and curtains of melted cheddar completed the structure. But I huffed and I puffed and I blew that sucker down. The diagnostically light and fatally fluffy Japanese bun perched on my palate with the grace of a grey heron, pulling the corners of my mouth gently upward as my shoulders went limp. It even occasioned a little murmur of delight, nigh inaudible over the ruckus of my feed. I swooned as the soy sauce marinade bathed the whole performance in the warm light of umami. Did I detect notes of anise and wet gravel? Barely aware of the couple breaking up at the table next to me, I faced the remainder with foolish devilry, finishing with long drags on my chocolatey guar gum brew and the toothpick-white perfection of tongue-chastened potato spears.
On the whole, I’d liken the Samurai Mac to a haiku: a winsome vignette that’s somehow simultaneously seasonal and timeless, and conforms perfectly to its hourglass structure. My only note would be a braver vegetable-to-carb ratio (I offer this critique to Japanese fast food at large). Whatever world the man on the placemat is beckoning me toward (see photo), I surrender wholeheartedly. My best to you and yours.
