Would you like to Supersize?

"Oh, good sir, would I ever" may have been response in the good old days, at least if those golden, crispy, salty Micky D's fries were involved. Seemingly, things have changed. By no means was I ever a fast food junkie at any point in my lifetime, including the 7 or 8 years of that were spent in the dirty south (by this I mean Florida, which really isn't what one would call the dirty south, but it gives me a little more character to say so, doesn't it? - plus, regardless, people do eat insane amounts of fast food down there). However, when I was a kid I waited patiently, and sometimes not so patiently, for those mornings my mom ran out of time for cooking breakfast, and I would get my beloved, steaming sausage mcmuffin en route to school. According to vague memories, and my mother, that was all I wanted. Ever. Dependent on the toy of the month, I would usually forgo the venerable happy meal for that mcmuffin (the picture is inaccurate - I don't think they make my precious anymore). Just me, my muffin, and my strangely geometrical patty-o'-smooshed-beef-parts, come hell or high water. As I grew older, my tastes "matured", if you will. Upon moving to quaint little Laguna Beach, Calif. at 13, I lost immediate access to most fast food restaurants, and began developing an appreciation for the mom and pop restaurants (in retrospect, I realize there were two small, organic restaurants within 5 blocks of my home there, before which I had never experienced anything of the sort). Yet, still, there were the late-night, special excursions "over-the-hill" (our term for the dreaded in-land - a whole 15 minutes off the coast) with friends to In 'n' Out Burger. One Cheeseburger (or grilled cheese during my vegetarian bout), an order of well-done fries, and a vanilla shake to dip them in, and I was set for a month or two more sans greasy indulgence. The once or twice a year that I ever went to McDonald's (usually a sneaky trip inspired by my mother's southern junk food cravings, behind my stepdad's back), there was only one thing I ordered: Filet o' Fish Sandwich. I detect your cringing, but I assure you - if ever there was a time not to knock it 'til you try it, this is it. Now that I have provided you with the anthology of my rare moments of fast-foodian epicureanism (triple word score), I can get to the point. Throughout my life, I have considered myself healthy for the simple reason that I've avoided fast food to the extent that I ate it, at the very most, once a month. Living in San Francisco, that frequency has decreased even moreso. Sure, I have my frozen dinner, greasy Mexican food, I need a god-foresaken pint of ice cream moments, but overall, I really just like healthy food better. Or so I thought....

Enter Michael Pollan and his extensively researched "The Omnivore's Dilemma", the source of my dietary despair for the past two weeks. He, representing all of mankind and its conflicting blissful ignorance and passionate self-concern, is part of my story of a deliciously twisted love triangle. The other two parties are Zazie and McDonalds, both residing in the Haight-Ashbury/Cole Valley areas of San Francisco. These two represent two alimentary choices or directions, not the same, but not completely different either. Let me first explain the relevance of this triangle with the first paragraph: In the past two or three weeks, a time I'll remember being nose deep in Pollan's book, I have been struggling more than ever in my life with the phrase "you are what you eat". Specifically, on a recent outing to In 'n' Out, I could not bring myself to order anything made with beef without knowing where it came from. On recent trips to grocery stores, I have walked out empty-handed, dazed, bewildered, wondering what the hell I had even been looking at while wandering the aisles. Why Michael, why? A large hand reaches from the heavens, turns another page in my book, and I see why. From "The Omnivore's Dilemma" I have learned, well, a lot about corn - which before, I thought was just...corn. After reading Pollan's descriptive analysis of the contents composing the contents composing the contents of the grocery store, i was intrigued. Reading further, I learned that corn's roots go deeper than unnaturally fertilized soil. Life. Is. Corn. This is something I had never once thought about before I was told to. Now, all I can think about is the perverse and incestuous relationship corn has with the life cycle of everything I see. This may sound dramatic, and I certaintly will say that I am fresh off the Michael Pollan boat and haven't quite gotten my land legs, however I think this reaction is appropriate when confronted with reasonable arguments against the way I have been nurishing my body for the past 21 years. What have I been eating, and what kind of walking corn hybrid have I become? I know these frantic and dramatic questions will subside, but I'm not sure my concern will.

On our final ESF outing, we visited the Haigh and Cole Valley neighborhoods, starting with dinner at Zazie, and finishing with some matching desserts at the ever-fascinating McDonald's on Haight Street. While there is better and worse food than Zazie and McDonald's, respectively, over the span of one entire meal, we probably traveled as far as one can imagine from one end of the spectrum to the other. Zazie is a small, quaint restaurant, with a simple, gourmet menu and wine list. We were there around 6, so natural lighting was provided by large skylights. The menu boasted that it sold beef from cows that lived locally on the coast and had a pleasant life "with an ocean view", and the menu items are changed to account for seasonal fruits and vegetables in the area. The food was amazing, and the service equally so. I couldn't help noticing that Kelli's pasta de printemps actually had flower petals scattered across the dish. Can't feel more natural than while you're eating that. Fresh was the most prominent word to describe our meal there, and even after reading most of Pollan's book, I don't think any of us were too worried about our orders. Then, we made the trek to the golden arches of Haight Street. Outside, young wanderers and old homeless men loitered in the parking lot and at the bus stop, and we all stepped into the sterile lights of McDonald's, our fin de la nuit.