McDonald's at a party is fine

Hate the sinner! Not the restaurant which teaches us to put waste in the bin!

When I saw that the President of the United States served McDonald’s at a recent White House reception, I laughed. A genuine belly laugh. I messaged a pal something along the lines of ‘I hate him but I approve of McDonald’s as a party spread’.

I’ve vomited after loads of free bar parties and blamed the prawns and hidden cheese in canapés, so I appreciate the bland saltiness that is a McDonald’s meal. I grew up near the Roscrea roundabout, which famously has a McDonald’s. My first communion meal was in the Limerick Crescent shopping centre McDonald’s. When my first smear test process ended in obfuscation and bureaucratic inflammation, I didn’t go back to work but went to McDonald’s on Grafton Street and ordered a chicken McNugget meal and instead of six pieces I opened the box to find seven and that is my short story.

(My political story is that I am glad Supermacs recently won an IP suit against McDonald’s. My country home is near Obamaplaza. The chapters of my biography will be named after service stations. I have a story about one in Buffalo and something religious happened to me in Junction 14.)

Then I skimmed social media and was told that actually, the McDonald’s spread in the White House was tacky, greasy, ‘house of carbs’, indicative of the man himself, etc. Eyeroll. There are so many other things to be giving out about other than your distaste with his food choices. And you can try dress up your manners by saying the McDonald’s is a metaphor for the shutdown and neoliberalism (I refuse to learn what this actually is, thank you, don’t even attempt to tell me), but I’ve already seen your canines peep.

Food snobbery is class snobbery and I’m aware I’m saying that from a very comfortable perch. But if you are judging people on their diets in 2019, you’ve failed the empathy exams. It’s the same with someone declaring they hate picky eaters. I really hope you never live in the shadow of disordered eating or an eating disorder. I hate brunch on principle because I don’t think eggs should be expensive, but I went one time with someone who loved the process of the meal but had a difficult relationship with meals in general. She asked for a fancy dish to be made a bit plain and the waiter was such an arse to her that I refused to go back there, despite it being a bland jewel in the crown of listicles back when listicles blighted Irish media. (I was probably delighted to find a reason to spurn.)

Someone messaged me last night to say they found all the mocking of people stocking up on bread in the face of last year’s snow uncomfortable.

A few months ago, I had a bolt of a life lesson when someone I was with ordered an alcopop and the barman in the posh enough Dublin 4 bar made a face. What someone else chooses to eat and drink, what they seek comfort from, isn’t your punchline.