HAUTE CUISINE (HOT FOOD)

by Chris Hammond

SquareOne Food

McDonald's, the world's most famous non-Michelin starred restaurant would be my dinner destination for tonight.

Decorated like a tasteless hospital canteen with barely functional tables and chairs, McDonald's first impressions suggested little to warrant its international reputation. This was of course the dining choice of many a Hollywood celebrity, including empty headed mime sensation Britney Spears. Unperturbed by my initial disappointment I moved towards the reception.

The restaurant has done away with traditional waiting practices, and operate a newfangled queue system where one has to stand in line before picking from a gaudy wall mounted menu. On reaching the front and confirming my reservation (which they had misplaced), the drone in attendance then asked to take my order which was then cooked right in front of my very eyes in a fully functional open view kitchen. Surprisingly, despite the fact two thirds of the restaurant's clientele were heavily inebriated I was curtly informed alcohol was not on the menu, nor was there a lounge bar I could retire to after my dinner. Not to worry after thirty seconds my order was ready.

Tucking into a Big Mac meal served on a cardboard plate, I sat back to enjoy the experience. The burger hinted at meat product, the cola was well iced and the salt content of the fries was reassuringly high. A feast fit for a king, despite leaving a vaguely nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Meal over what then struck me about McDonald's, other than the smell of nappies and sweat, was the very exclusive dress code. In fact sitting here decked out in a fine Italian blazer, Loakes and crisply ironed shirt I stood out like a sore thumb. Most of the hungry masses had adopted a very casual interpretation of sports casual which included training shoes, jogging bottoms and hooded top. The music too was more P Diddy than philharmonic orchestra lending an edgy uncertain atmosphere to proceedings.

Later, when moving onto dessert (something called a McFlurry), the ambiance was greatly enhanced by a dishevelled collection of England rugby fans whose busy hands, receding hairlines and notable paunches, complemented the near skeletal collection of Adidas clad proletariat who had overtaken much of the eating space. With the violent undertones escalating as the Sassenach’s rued their surprise butchering at the hands of ‘Ex Edinburgh Public Schools Egg Chasing Select’ I decided to retire to the washroom to freshen up. Here I met a young Leither called Chas who was frantically trying to find his veins under the UV light, whatever for exactly I’m unsure. Unable to freshen up sufficiently, mostly due to the fact the scent emanating from the sink suggested it was also functioning as an auxiliary toilet, I scrambled back to my dining table only to find a nervy pack of Japanese tourists huddled there. Rather than join them for a friendly chat I disappeared to The Oxford where there were a half dozen pints of IPA with my name written all over them.