Cold Crashing in Beer Land!

I have always loved the golden arches. Like always. Like loved. It’s a torrid affair though. A socially acceptable addiction. I knew a guy once, whos’ sister was a food scientist. She worked for a popular chip manufacturer developing cheese powder recipes for the chips. He said, that she said that they feed people chips with the different cheese powders on them and then put the people in MRI machines and look at their brains. The recipe that lights up the addiction center of the brain the most is what is chosen, even if it doesn’t score highest on the tasty scale. This is how I love mickey d’s. Biologically. Predestined. Forged in familiarity and brain chemistry. I seek it for comfort. At the end of the day, does it need to be this complicated? Can’t an American girl just like fast food?

Columbia City Indiana 1986

I remember on cold, icy blue Indiana winter mornings, waking up at sunrise to drive to some smelly high school gym in some no name corn town to compete in Judo tournaments. Just your average American family activity in the 1980s, right? We did this for years. So many years. We would pile into the maroon Dodge Caravan, me, my brothers and my dad and we would traverse the Midwest in quest of Higi Judo gold. And we won quite a lot of it, I must say.

On those early mornings, my dad would stop for drive through breakfast before we hit the highway. Among the many delicious menu options, the 80’s had to offer, one always stood out like a shining morning star for me personally and that would be the sausage muffin with egg, so perfect in its creation. Hearty, warm, filling, cheesy, meaty goodness.

I remember very vividly the sting of learning the difference between a regular egg muffin and the sausage muffin with egg on one of those brisk Indiana judo mornings. The breakfast bag was handed to me by my dad who was driving, for distribution to my brothers in the back seats. As soon as I opened the bag, I could tell from the colors of the sandwich papers inside, that I had fucked up. I had fucked up bad. Blue was for the biscuits for Chris and Dad. Josh got the big breakfast because he was the oldest kid.

I frowned at the limp white sandwich wrapper that was left. Yellow. It was supposed to be yellow. How in the hell was I supposed to fight in my division and up a division on a goddammed regular egg muffin and its shitty piece of Canadian bacon? I was code red hangry at this point, holding the wrong food. This is America and they want to make a breakfast sandwich with shitty Canadian bacon. My hanger had gone international. My dad, having little sympathy for me, told me to use it to help me win today and drove on.

Clearly, I don’t make the breakfast sandwich rules. But if I did, the sausage muffin with egg would be the flagship sandwich and the Canadian bacon muffin would be crying in the corner.

Fort Wayne Indiana 1988

My mother never let us eat “that crap” she’d tell you. Although special occasions aside, feeding the kids daily was never a top priority for my mother.

In the second grade, my teacher for that year, took turns taking each kid in our class out for lunch to the restaurant right across the street from the school. Sounds harmless enough, right? Maybe even like the kind of activity that could be a fun positive thing that was allowed to happen in the 1980s. For most kids, I’m sure it was. For me however, siiiigh.

Let me provide a bit of context as to why that was. First, sorting through the idea of lunch. My parents felt the need to send me and my brothers to a very expensive private school. Instead of viewing education as an institution and treating the faculty at this school with respect, it was decided to treat these people as servant babysitters. As such, they could not imagine how a school that was as pricey as the one we went to, didn’t provide school lunch as it was school policy for the students to bring their own lunches.

Elementary school was rough for us. Sometimes the job got done and sometimes not. I think enough of those sometimes not days occurred and at some point, someone from the school called my mom to remind her to send us to school with lunch. Not taking kindly to criticism from mere educators, a full-fledged lobbying mission to force the school to begin a lunch program ensued.

I have to say, being caught in the middle of all of this was quite confusing. I just wanted lunch. Never mind the fancy snacks and treats that all the other affluent kids had. Never mind the cool lunch boxes they got to pick out every year. Never mind the neat, leak proof thermoses that came with those lunch boxes and held homemade soups and things. Never mind a note with a hand drawn heart on it reminding me of my worth and that I was loved. Just some food would have been fine.

Like any true prep school would, they finally bent and began serving pizza for a dollar per slice every Wednesday. Now, the game switched. Now, there were never any dollars for pizza on Wednesdays. Fun. I get to watch everyone else eat pizza for lunch and I still don’t get lunch. I wish I were making this shit up.

I’m in the second grade. Teacher is taking each kid in our class to the golden arches for lunch. But we had to bring our own money for the journey. The stress of all of this was overwhelming. My day is fast approaching. I’m screeching weeks ahead of time at my mother to be prepared, to have lunch money available. To not embarrass me by making my 8-year-old self-have to sit while the teacher, who was a total bitch by the way, ate her fast food in front of me.

I had no faith in anyone to produce a positive outcome for me here. I was bracing for dread, misery and whatever garbage excuse I might use to make it look like while in fact people cared greatly for me, there was some terrible unforeseen reason why money couldn’t be produced for lunch that day. But it definitely wasn’t her fault and while this kinda stuff happened all the time, it didn’t mean that I wasn’t loved.

So, the day comes. The morning arrives. Somehow a brand new crisp $20 bill is presented to me by my mother. And she is smiling. Somethings not right here. I knew this was a test. I knew there was something more going on here. She’s never just this nice to me. Things just don’t ever go my way like this. I snatched the $20, tried to give her a hug and off to school I went.

It was cold outside. I remember the teacher and her spiky red hair and her nasally forceful voice tone, bundled up in a thick black felt coat probably purchased from the mall and now covered in gaudy fake jeweled broaches, squashed into the front seat of her Buick. We drove literally across the street from the school to the restaurant and went through the drive though.

As we were waiting in the drive through line, she asked me what I wanted to eat. Well, it wasn’t breakfast hours anymore and the sausage muffin with egg was off limits. I guess chicken nuggets would do. And I’d take the kids meal version please, the one that came with a toy. Hot mustard for the dipping sauce.

It was Christmas time and for whatever reason, the restaurant was selling these plush puppet themed Christmas characters. I’d take one of each of those as well please, teacher. One frog, one pig and sure I’ll take the bear too. Can’t leave him out.

The teacher wasn’t dumb. She knew how my family was. This was the third year of having three kids at the private school and our reputation now preceded us. She knew that lunch was an issue most days. That’s when she set the trap. “Do you have money for all of this?” “Sure do!” as I pulled out the $20. “My mom said its fine” I lied.

She ordered and we drove around. I remember the stuffed animals coming through the drive through window to the teacher who tossed them at me one at a time. They were hermetically sealed in individual plastic bags that I would be sure to dispose of correctly in the trash so as not to unintentionally kill babies or sea creatures. I was so happy.

We went back to the class room and ate lunch. I opened each new friend, removed them from their womb, smelled their plastic-y new friend smell and welcomed them into my world. I sat them all up on the desk as I ate and tried to ignore the screeching questions that were pummeled at me. “Do you like being in my class?” “No.” “Whys that?” “Because you’re mean to me and everyone here is dumb” (Teacher was never a fan of my straight-shooting ways.)

After lunch the rest of the class returned. There I sat, so cool, so fortunate. I had chicken nuggets for lunch. If youre asking, it was a kid’s meal. I had my three brand new creatures stuffed into my desk. (Teacher didn’t want me to show them off she said. She didn’t want the other kids to get jealous of me.)

After school, standing in the kitchen at home, my mom asked how my lunch was. “Fine” I responded, concerned as the only time my mother was interested in my life was when she had something up her sleeve. Then she asked for the change from the $20. There was none, I replied. “What do you mean there’s no change, how much did lunch cost?” she asked cooly, stopping to look me in the eye, expecting the 8-year-old to have all the answers. I pulled the three puppet characters out of my back pack and said, “I spent the extra money on these.”

She. Was. Pissed. In her cold, calm, cool demeanor she let me have it. How dare I. I didn’t have permission to get the toys. Why did I think it was ok to buy them? I had taken them out of the plastic now, so they couldn’t be returned. That’s it. She was never going to give me lunch money again if I couldn’t be trusted with it. From here on out, I would have to wake up early and make my own lunch every day. She would have nothing more to do with the subject.

By the time middle school rolled around, everything had changed. My dad’s family business vanished. The family associated with that business vanished. In one fell swoop, my mom woke us up one late summer morning at 6am to inform us that she was leaving my dad and we were moving out.

Ho Chi Minh Vietnam 2017

Fast forward to 2017. I’m now 37. After my father had passed away in 2016, I did what any normal human does and I moved to the other side of the planet. Now that I didn’t have my father around to protect me and call me beautiful, it was time to move away. As far away as I could get. I had accepted a position as head brewer for a brewery in Vietnam and had moved to Ho Chi Minh City (lovingly called Saigon) in late 2016.

The brewery was on a little island in the Saigon River delta called Can Gio. It was 2 and a half hours outside of Saigon via motorbike and river ferry. I would travel back and forth between the taproom in the city and the brewery in the countryside, spending about 4-5 days each place at a time.

Saigon can be a very difficult place to live. It can be hard to explain if you’ve never been there and if you’ve been there for years, it can be hard to remember life before. Lucky for me, I enjoy a challenge. I also enjoyed creature comforts of home from time to time like American luxuries such as breakfast sandwiches. And pills.

The golden arches in district one of Saigon was a magical place. Large, bright and usually clean, it offered fun and unique Vietnamese menu items such as cafe sua da (Vietnamese coffee), com tam (rice with vegetables) and the fish burger along with traditional American favorites. But I was there for the sausage muffin with egg. Sometimes in south east Asia, you’d like a breakfast that doesn’t always still kinda taste like fish. During those times, the golden arches in district one is there and conveniently located not too far from Bui Vien.

Bui Vien is the sort of main drag in the tourist-y part of district one which is the touristy district. It’s a barely twoish lane road, packed full of cars, motorbikes, cats, dogs and people and rats and lined with bars, shops, restaurants and pharmacies. I was on Bui Vien for the pharmacies.

I had found one that sold capsules. They were nice because you could just pop them open, pour a smidge out, feel good and move forward with your day. Between the heat, humidity, transportation and restroom situations Saigon offered, giant red headed white ladies had it rough. The woman at the pharmacy felt my pain. She also knew limits. She’d never sell me more than two capsules at a time and if I tried to stop in more than she felt was appropriate, they’d magically be out of stock and she’d tell me to come back later.

So, I usually just stuck to Sundays. I used to call the whole thing “church.” I’d pop by the pharmacy, buy one or two and head down the block for breakfast. In addition to the flavors of home, the golden arches in Saigon also had the toilets of home. I’d run up to the bathroom, do my morning business “western style” and enjoy a drop of off uncle Ho’s face in the stall before heading downstairs to order breakfast.

I’d get my cafe sua da and my sausage muffin with egg and grab a table outside. It truly was my happy place. In the chaotic, aromatic, new world in which I now lived, this was my little slice of American heaven. It was a chemically aided chance to relax and release my homesickness. An opportunity to let the sights and sounds of millions of new and interesting people, dissolve around me while I enjoyed a simple pleasure that I have treasured my entire life. The meaty, cheese, wholesome goodness that is the sausage muffin with egg. And it tastes exactly the same. And not even kinda like fish. Even on the other side of the world.

Costa Rica 2019

My experiences with the golden arches in central America were few. And I’m not sure if a sausage muffin with egg was involved in any of them. I’m not even sure that they sell breakfast at their restaurants in central America. The only thing that means though is, if they do sell breakfast in central America and I did have it, I’m absolutely sure it tasted exactly the same as in the states.

What is notable about the golden arches in central America though, is their commitment to the environment. I remember one afternoon after a surf day at the beach, we stopped into one. I ordered a combo meal which is rare for me. I don’t really like fries or soda so typically if I make this move, it’s because I’m looking for a quick and easy, high calorie order. Which was the case here.

The strange part was when they handed me my cup, there was no lid or straw with it. And there were no lids and straws by the soda machine or anywhere else around for that matter. I thought that this was odd but I was in a group and the rest of the group just filled their cups with ice and soda and moved on so I did also. We sat down at a table and as we began eating, I looked around the restaurant. No one anywhere else in the place had lids or straws. There was not a lid or straw in the restaurant.

I asked the fellas I was with, who were centro americo pros, what was going on with this. Why were there no lids or straws for the cups?! They explained that Costa Rica committed to no plastic waste. None of the big food chains used lids or cups or other plastic items like forks and spoons. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Cool.

India February 2020

India was interesting. My encounter with the micky ds there occurred about half way through my month-long stay. It was off the highway at a rest stop on a day trip from Mumbai to Pune. I had been invited to Mumbai to be a guest brewer for a brewery and brewpub there. We brewed a couple beers and while they were fermenting, we took a day trip to the neighboring city of Pune. Pune is another Indian mega city that many westerners don’t really know much about. Siiigh. It’s a lovely city though with a population of many millions of people. What was notable here was the golden fast-food god did have breakfast. All day breakfast, too!

I was so happy. Indian food was lovely. Very delicious. I had been enjoying an oddly interesting breakfast buffet at the hotel where I was staying. And most of my other meals had been prepared at the tap room by my hosts chef, who was wonderful. I wasn’t really homesick there, that is until I saw the golden arches alongside the highway that day. My gracious hosts obliged my request and after a quick stop at the squat toilets, it was on to the counter.

I feel like it was around lunch time but they had sausage muffins with egg. Yes! I ordered one. Fantastic! I got the sandwich and we sat down in the food court. I opened the wrapper and began enjoying it when I noticed that the sausage patty looked a little strange. The muffin tasted really great, exactly the same, fantastic. But the color of the patty was off. Instead of being brownish-gray, it was whitish-gray. Before I could even ask, Pooja, my host, asked me how it was. She explained that because they are mostly Hindu in India and don’t eat pork, the sausage used is made with chicken.

I had no idea. It tasted exactly the same! It looked a little off, but it tasted exactly the same! My mind was happily blown. Honestly, I didn’t care what meat made the sausage, I was just thrilled that I could look at this sandwich in so many countries, have an expectation of what it will taste like and then have this expectation be met so many times with so many different global variables of ingredients.

What an incredible testament to quality, consistency and science.

Cheers!