A Review of the Food At My Local Arby’s

I admire food critics. The way they can separate the good aspects from the bad with the usage of a discerning tongue, and then relay this information to us in a manner that is both erudite and vivid is, to me, a true wonder. If there were ever a job for a writer whose greatest fault is being too description when they tell a story, the job is that of a food critic. The job requires a writer to bask within the minutia of the subject at hand, be it a steak, a stew, or a shark fin soup. A food critic must interpret the instinctual thoughts and emotions that all of us have whenever we take a bite – the thoughts that most of us are at a loss for words to describe – and translate them in to us in a way that that we not only understand, but in a way that makes us feel as though we ourselves were tasting what they taste as if through some kind of futuristic virtual reality module.

I can’t do any of that shit.

I’ve tried.

The only fancy word I can use to describe a meal is “unctuous,” which means oily. As soon as I eat something that isn’t oily, the only word in my fancy food describing repertoire goes out the window and I’m left with only “This sucks,” and “Fuck yes! More!”

So with this in mind, I set out to make myself in to a food critic. I, the guy that has a very hard time describing tastes, will attempt to describe tastes. To you.

Seeing as I’m far, far too broke to eat at a fancy 5-star joint, I chose Arby’s instead. Why Arby’s? Because I, like most broke people, eat a lot of fast food. Arby’s just so happens to be the one fast food restaurant in my area that I rarely go to. In fact, I probably haven’t been there in a few years, and I have no memory of the way their food tastes. I don’t even remember if I liked their food. Therefore, Arby’s it is.

From the moment my local Arby’s opened their doors and fired up the…devices they use to prepare the food (microwaves, I assume), I would be there, eating, and passing judgment.

And now, on to the reviews…

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Sausage, Egg, and Cheese Wrap

I had no idea Arby’s served breakfast, so this is a pleasant surprise. Sadly, after my first bite of their Sausage, Egg and Cheese wrap, the only surprise I’m left with is the one I will later experience when I look at my bank account and see that I spent 6 bucks on this thing.

Let me start this off with a question: are tortillas supposed to have to consistency of partially melted silly putty? If so, then this thing is a winner on all counts. But something tells me that trying to pass off this tortilla as a real tortilla to a Mexican street vendor would be like kidnapping a child and handing the mother a kid of a completely different ethnicity and age, then hoping she doesn’t notice.

The tortilla also has an eerie unctuousness to it that oozes with every bite. The unctuosity of it turned the tortilla translucent, allowing me to come face-to-face with the synthetic foodstuffs within.

I hesitate to call the yellow chunky stuff inside the wrap “eggs,” because eggs don’t gain a honey comb-like structure when you cook them. My guess? Arby’s cut some corners in the egg department by foregoing the purchase of anything that could even be considered an egg, and instead decided to dip some flimsy Styrofoam in to some Yellow No. 5.

The sausage was easily the best part of the entire mess, which is to say that on a scale of 1 to 10 – 1 being terrible and 10 being extremely terrible – these things covered both ends of the spectrum, and they even leapt off the scale and created their own number specially designed for food that sucks. That number is shaped like a penis and it has stink lines emanating off it. The number has no name, but if I were to call it something I would call it “Dick Stink.”

Big Beef ‘n Cheddar

I’m at a loss to describe the Big Beef ‘n Cheddar in any other way than this: it looks like a floppy, overused vagina that’s been sneezed on. That might be appetizing to some, but decidedly nightmarish to me.

I’m not going to speak about all Big Beef ‘n Cheddar’s in the world, but the one I ate suffered terribly from a case of not-looking-anything-like-the-pictures-on-the-menu. Where the BBNC on the menu had a certain liveliness to it — like it had just come back from a lovely Tahitian vacation – the one I unwrapped looked like it was about to kill itself because it hates its job, its wife left it, and its kids think it’s a total tool.

Think back all of those hours you spent watching Loony Toons as a child, and all of those comically floppy flat car tires you saw whenever a character threw tacks on the road. Now, imagine that every time Bugs Bunny or Roadrunner laid down those tacks, the car tires that ran them over started to bleed, and they cried like the soldiers at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is that if the Big Beef ‘n Cheddar were a person, it would be an Emo wrist cutter.

The beef itself was extra soppy — as if it had been sitting in a vat of its own liquefied self-loathing for far too long.

As for the flavor, well, there was some – but it isn’t anything I would call “good.” Although, I can see how some people might like it. Maybe if you’ve been locked away in an evil man’s dungeon for an extended period of time as he anally probed you with electrodes; or maybe if you were trapped under a boulder and you had to eat your own face to survive, then, yeah. I get it. In either of those scenarios a BBNC is a welcome alternative. But if you’re a human that’s just out looking for a quick lunch, I would suggest you try to swallow your own tongue before you eat a Big Beef ‘n Cheddar.

French Dip and Swiss Toasted Sub

The only thing “French” about it is that it sucks.

…

Oh, am I supposed to go on with that review? Well, I’m pretty sure the beef is the same beef that was used to make the Big Beef ‘n Cheddar, so it tasted like soggy hatred.

The dip…I don’t really know what the dip is. French Dip is supposed to be made of the delicious and fatty juices released by the meat during the cooking process. I’m almost certain Arby’s French Dip was made in a lab using chemicals that have polysyllabic names that don’t sound anything like the very simplistic “meat juice.”

Its taste is overly complicated and overly synthetic. It tastes like the world ended and the last remaining scientist on the planet attempted to re-create the taste of meat juice, even though he’s never had meat that wasn’t laced with irradiation in his life. If you’re a regular Funny Crave reader, then that comparison may seem familiar to you. I used the same metaphor to describe the smell of chocolate-scented Axe body spray.

Meat and spray-on deodorant. Two completely different products, yet the same rules apply. There’s some wrong with that.

Jalapeño bites with Bronco Berry Sauce

Easily the best item of all the ones I had the displeasure of reluctantly cramming in my gaping maw. Which is sad. Any time a slice of jalapeno that’s covered in cream cheese, that’s then battered and fired is better than your “Market Fresh Sandwiches,” is also the time that you should really take a step back and re-evaluate your standing in the food service business.

I have no complaints about the Jalapeno bites themselves. But the Bronco Berry Sauce that the bites come with is easily the 2^nd silliest thing you could ever put in your mouth right behind a clown’s penis.

This eerily unctuous semi-liquid product is more like watered-down jelly than it is a “sauce.” For those that have never tired the Bronco Berry Sauce, allow me to explain the flavor to you in a way that only someone with an infantile mind can tell: it tastes like Berry-flavored Kool-Aid mixed with phlegm.

The “sauce” is supposed to compliment the jalapeno bites by adding a layer of sweetness to the salty-savory tastes of the fried junk it covers. This is a good idea that works very well when pull-off correctly, but it fails miserably here. It’s like wrapping a horse’s salt lick in cotton candy. Or, to take the metaphor to its extreme, sprucing up a bloody and grotesque crime scene with jaunty sunflowers.

Ruben with Corned Beef Sandwich

I guess if there’s one word to describe the entire Arby’s menu, it would be “Soggy.” Or, “Drippy.” Or “Oozy.” Or “festering pustule.”

That last one does a great job of describing the Ruben sandwich, specifically. If you’ve ever been to a real, authentic Jewish deli and have eaten one of their Ruben’s, then you know how great the combination of sauerkraut and Thousand Island dressing can be. Sadly, this combination is pretty atrocious in the hands of Arby’s. The sauerkraut feels like over-cooked ramen noodles, very slippery and it dissolves on your tongue like a minty breath strip. Combine that with the weak Thousand Island dressing, you get a sloppy goop that’s more akin to a bathroom mirror after a very successful pimple-popping session than it is to a real Ruben.

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So, that’s it. Over the course of two days I ate everything I just listed.

If I were to give Arby’s a grade based solely on the quality and flavor of their food, I would give them a “Go to Hell,” which is particularly harsh considering that the grading scale only goes from “A” to “F.”

Everything there tastes like a very far off approximation of what it should taste like — with the exception of the jalapeno bites, which taste like the fried crap that it is (that’s a good thing).

So good job, Arby’s! You guys fucking suck.