Nutro

The Burger

Debunking myths is one of the reasons why Nutro decided to start this blog, and it’s why our popularity has been skyrocketing. Quite clearly, people are sick to the back teeth of reading falsehoods about food and drink.

One of the most brazen inaccuracies around is the notion that one of the most popular dishes available, the Burger, originated in Hamburg (hence the term Hamburger).

The lie can easily be explained with the Germans’ chronic obsession with dominance. Even when it comes to a patty with a slab of meat in the middle, they can’t help it. They want to take over the world.

Well, meine Freunde, I have news for you. The hamburger is something else. It’s got nothing to do with the burger. Just look at the word. Ham.

Ham, you know, the cooked pork, the cold cut, the sliced jambòn, the carved delicacy that we discussed at length here. Not, and I mean not, the maritime city of Hamburg, famous for airplane manufacturing, a lake in the middle of town, and WWII retaliation.

The burger actually comes from Manchester and the etimology of the word stems from the old Mancunian buh-guh.

In fact - as we live in an age of ignorance - when people are anxious to shed their roots and give in to the newest fad, very few are aware that the Manchester area had its own language as recent as the XVIII century.

Dishes like Chips ‘n’ Graveh, Pasty Barm or Eccles Keh-ks. Drinks like Vimto (Old Manc for “sweet drink”). Names like Donnuh (Donnah) or Andeh (Andy), or even Cooli-eh (Coolio). Expressions like owt (anything), nowt (nothing) and -of course- sowt (something). Quite simply, there are tons of examples proving that the old Manc was a world apart from English.

As for buh-guh, this was none other than the precusor of today’s trendy “burger”, a simple but tasty meat patty which can be enjoyed by the whole family, anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

The problem is that those snotty southerners and those domineering Germans would sooner neglect Manchester’s proudest son than admit that, in the old days of the industrial revolution, a steak consumed with mustard and Bermuda onion between two slices of bread was the workman’s best way to enjoy supper.

It was in fact in 1734, when the drizzle was pouring relentlessly, and the smoke from those steam engines was darkening the Lancashire skyline, that a workman called Andeh Salford came up with the idea of a buhguh.

Like all brilliant ideas, the buh-guh too was the spawn of pure chance.

Ravenous after a long day’s work slaving away on the shopfloor, Andeh Salford walked back to his modest back-to-back dwelling, took his hungry 7 children to bed, and was about to assault his ground beef sandwich in his kitchen while listening to the radio.

It was at this moment that his sandwich slipped out of his callous hands. The sliced bread wasn’t much cop when it came to offering a tight grip for the ground beef. Desperate to still enjoy his carne with some bread, Andeh Salford spotted a lone bun on his kitchen appliances.

He grabbed a knife, sliced the pattybun into two halves, shoved the slab of ground beef in the middle and decided on the spot to stick a couple of onion rings on top. The buh-guh was born.

Andeh was so delighted with his dinner that he told all his mates about his invention. “Eh, every won. Ah’m talkin’ to thee! Here’s the buh-guh!”, he told them all.

A culinary star was born. Soon after his death, an important district of Manchester was named after Mr Salford, but it was at this point that the hawks of fame took over, claiming that the burger was from Hamburg rather than the direct descendant of the buh-guh.

Don’t give in to bad myths. Next time you dig your gnashers into a juicy burger and get ketchup squirting all over your greasy fingers, spare a thought for the true creator of the buh-guh. His legacy lives on.

The pulpo

One of the most irritating traits of British nationalism, Little Englandism and monolingualism, is the islanders’ inexplicable, obtuse aversion to one of the most stunning gifts that have been bestowed upon us: the octopus.

You mention the word octopus to the islanders, and the likely response is scorn, ridicule and sarcasm in that exact order. 

“Oh my god, Mr Nutro, how can you eat something with tentacles?” or, even “Are you quite sure, Sir [don’t you hate it that all Brits call everyone "sir”, I mean…hello…?], this is a cephalopod mollusc of the order Octopoda…?“, or worse…"eewwww, it’s got arms!”… and so on…

Stick to your ale, I say, while you watch your London United FC play the Champions League, and you reminisce of Princess Diana. In the meantime, a whole world of complexity is lost upon you.

In itself, talking about the octopus is as generic as referring to sport as a whole. Just like we can enjoy many a variety of olympic disciplines - curling, cricket, hockey, shotput to name but the most important ones - there also exists endless types of octopi.

For reasons of space and clarity, Nutro will focus exlusively on the octopus vulgaris (also known as pulpo), which is the most widely known octopus around.

Local of the Atlantic ocean, the octopus is not only easy and quick to prepare, but it’s also pleasant and un-savage.

Available in specialised markets and fishmongers, there are few easy steps to prepare a mouthwatering plate of octopus, as long as you follow the instructions to the letter.

First off, you need to grab the cephalopod mollusc by some of its sucker-bearing arms and you need to batter it against a hard surface. Concrete or granite will do fine. But remember, we’re not talking about slamming it a couple of times.

Either you pay attention to this or you’re wasting my time. Read carefully.

You need to grab the pulpo and BATTER it. Whack it with all the strenght you’ve got, as much as you can.

Don’t feel guilty, don’t forget that the pulpo paralyses its prey with venomous saliva. And, the coward also tends to camouflage, which is indication of no firm beliefs on its parts. It’s therefore quite clear that we’re hardly lamping Mother Theresa here.

After spending a good few minutes pounding the nautilus using extreme force, dip it in and out of boiling water - twice.

This is why the North Western Spaniards of Galicia (true lovers of everything-pulpo) actually call it “the Repulpo”, because it’s actually cooked twice. Literally, pulped again.

Let the watery corpse boil for exactly 20 minutes, then all you have to do is cut the head off with a sharp knife or scissors (chuck it in the bin or lob it into your dog’s bowl, if you have a dog, that is), and slice the tentacles off the same way you would with a leg of salami.

This is the moment in which the magic of repulpo takes shape. Grab hold of a wooden plate, which is more rustic, homely and cosy. Arrange the thin pieces of dead (re)pulpo on the plate and sprinkle them with salt, peppy paprika and a generous dollop of extra-virgin olive oil.

If you don’t use extra-vergin oil you’re basically wasting the whole thing. This is because the way exocrine glands interact with both cooked octopus and extra-virgin olive oil activates the production of a special enzyme in the sublingual gland.

This enzyme, known as lobule, triggers in your gob the best possible response to taste, ensuring that a mouthful of repulpo with extra-virgin olive oil and paprika is the closest non-sexual experience to a human orgasm. Scientists have likened it to the taste experienced by a person going down on a ginger minge. Fishy, zestful, and sparkling.

And that’s not all. Western Galician have long disputed with their Eastern counterparts the idea that repulpo should be accompanied with boiled potatoes.

A number of skirmishes aimed at solving this painful dilemma took place over the centuries, the bloodiest of with was the battle of Cacheiras, in 1846, where General Berberecho and Admiral Solis were shot by the pro-potato troops led by Colonel Cachelo.

Berberecho and Solis have taken their place in Galician memory as the Martyrs of the Repulpo, while “cachelo” became the name used nowadays to refer to the boiled potatoes that many pulperias (especially in the West) use to accompany a delicious plate of repulpo cocido (or cuit).

Indeed, a truly lip-licking helping of repulpo will taste even more complete if accompanied by a couple of sliced cachelos, drizzled with another dribble of extra-virgin olive oil and a freckle of peppy paprika.

True orgasm, even of a better quality than the one associated with carnal intercourse, will easily be achieved if white wine of the Albariño variety, also native of Galicia, is knocked back to accompany the battered octopus.

Peachy on the nose and bursting with clear flavour and acidity, the spritzy Albariño will be the perfect complement to the defunct invertebrate, as it does not alter the organoleptic properties of the repulpo.

So, get your mates round, cook an octopus and lap it all up. It’ll be a fun night!

The lettuce

Lettuce. Lechuga, lettuga, sallad, alface, enciam… no matter what those European bureaucrats try to label it, the only language where this delectably versatile Eudicot is given the justice it deserves is German.

This is what those Germans call it: Kopfsalat.

Kopf. Salat. Head salad, for the linguistically challenged.

That’s right, my hungry readers. Those fine Teutonic minds, the makers of BMWs, Audi and the Das Auto par excellance, the Trabant, were always going to be the only ones to recognise the true value of the greenest of vegetables (or shall i say Gemüse, lol!): the lettuce.

Oh the lettuce, the poetry it evokes. Images of green hills, snapshots of landscapes and fields punctuated with armies of illegal migrants picking vegetables in Yuma (thus stealing our jobs).

Just to give you an idea, “Lactuca” is what Julius Cesar used to call it (hence the name “Caesar salad”, an apt tribute to a fearless military tactician).

A sworn enemy to chicory and cabbage, this fine leaf of a vegetable is the loyal sidekick at the dinner table.

Put succintly, the lettuce is to the hamburger what Robin is to Batman, Joe Satriani to Bon Jovi, George Osborne to David Cameron, Chewbacca to Harrison Ford, or if you’re in a Tour de France mood, Richie Porte to Chris Froome (though watch those urine samples, you don’t wanna end up sitting with Oprah ten years down the line!).

Ever the faithful disciple, the wise first mate, the lifelong companion, a meal without the lettuce is like a bowl of pasta deprived of the joy of sugo.

Quite simply, it’s your loss if you choose not to shove a leaf or two of lettuce down your gullet.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, you sneering cynic. You probably believe all that crass propaganda that contaminated lettuce is a source of bacterial, viral and parasitic outbreaks in humans, including E-coli.

Bull. Shit. God knows who’s bankrolling all that politically correct hogwash. The lettuce is so beloved by the public that, forget E-coli, if you try saying those poisonous words out loud in public, you’re more likely to get an outbreak of protest E-mails.

The lettuce doesn’t cause E-coli. The lettuce is good, it’s crunchy, it’s fresh, it’s luscious, it’s c'est bon. A mellow but sincere accompaniment. Just imagine a juicy burger without it’s loyal leaf. You’d be deprived of minerals before you can even say the word.

Not to mention vitamin A, vitamin K, iron and magnesium. Why else do you think those cunning foxes at McDonald’s decided to adopt the lettuce as a burger staple, rather than, say, the spinach, the watercress or the tuna?

Because they know that such a simple angiosperm will save their asses from a tsunami of lawsuits that their otherwise low nutrient foods would bring about.

After all, lest we forget, lettuce (or Kopfsalat) is the second most popular fresh vegetable in the United States behind #1, the blonde potato, and that it was introduced to the New World from Europe, as early as 1494.

Finally, a word of warning. While busy rustling up those summery salads,  or veggin’ it out with creamy dressings and exotic wraps, don’t forget that only 100% fresh lettuce™ is endorsed by Nutro.

By that I mean, only the government-sanctioned “Lactuca” (or Kopfsalat), not the inferior Lactuca seriola, Lactuca scariola, or all those vulgar Asteraceae that, too often, are imported from radioactive countries. Aside from tasting rank, within them are also important causes of allergic contact dermatitis which, once caught, ain’t easy to shed, bud.

It’s summer time. Let’s all have a salad.

Garlic

You’re sitting at a pokey little cafe in an infectiously cheerful old town that straddles the two oceans. The sun’s sinking lower and lower, retiring for the day to a well-deserved sleep after long hours of hard labour in which it roared proud, emblazoning the sky for hours on end.

Startled by such timeless spectacle, only a few people (but the sharp-as-an-eagle Nutro, of course) have clocked that the moon has just started to gently poke its head out, as the season cast an orange haze above the Andalusian horizon, lighting up the clear sky as if lit by fire.

Into the distance, the tapping and clapping of the local flamenco dancers is adding to the hypnotic scene. Two Antonio Banderas-lookalikes are bashing a table with their knuckles and a sensual, black-haired lady is yelling like a banshee in a melange of fandango, cantiñas and zarabanda.

Suddenly, an insidious tinge of unpleasantness is poking at my nostrils. It’s an eerily familiar smell, but difficult to discern on the spot. You just know, instinctively, that this putrid aroma doesn’t spell good news. Flashes of a nightmarish past are reawoken, that dark day when you were asked to pop to the local mortuary to name your next of kin when not even dental records were enough to identify the rotten corpse.

As my eyes shut open, the sudden mist of rancidness and foul odour allows me to just about make out a silhouette. It’s a stocky, tanned figure. Piercing black eyes emerging from an long, horse-like face. It’s the waiter.

“Señor?, Señor”, he keeps calling me, as I emerge from my comatose state, mouth as dry as if an evil torturer had stuffed a spoonful of Arizona sand against your gums. “Algo mas, señor?”, the waiter asks.

“No, thanks”, I answer intuitively. Who does he think he is, mind you, talking to me in a language other than English? Doesn’t he know I’m an English-speaking food conoisseur and celebrated nutritionist?

Quibbles, however, as I suddenly take in where the foul stench that just threatened to boltlock me into irreversible coma is coming from.

It’s his breath, the waiter’s breath.

Now, may God the Father and Christ Jesus our Savior give you grace and peace, because never again will you smell such a heinous gust of bodily air until you’ve tried people who go through garlic the same way most mortals imbibe tea.

And that’s because Andalusia, Spain’s southernmost region, is the world’s leader in garlic consumption. From chomping on garlic-flavoured chewing gums to copiously sprinkling shards of the angiospermic clove onto every single dish under the roaring sun, the locals in Andalusia are hopelessly addicted to the foul-smelling bulb.

And while dealing with a garlic addict is a real threat to anyone who’s unfamiliar with its mephitic effluvium, it will at least warn our readers of the serious dangers carried by diet which relies too heavily on garlic.

No wonder everyone from vampires to nosy neighbours and from spiders to loan sharks are terrified of it. Its rank smell is enough to turn a whole population into a lazy bunch, such is its bamboozling effect on people’s senses. Just look at Andalusia’s productivity rates! Even the Muslims, after invading it in 711 AD, decided that taming a population reeking of garlic breath wasn’t worth the hassle.

What simply happened back then was that the lazy Andalusians, far from building up any armed resistance, cunningly decided to simply talk constantly at their Muslim invaders -literally talking the crap out of them everywhere, all the time- thus stunning them with their nefarious, garlic-laden breath.

The strategy paid off. Even David Starkey, the rudest and most pompous of living historians, conceded in a recent Channel Five interview that the famous Reconquista was actually kick started by the offputting effect that the malevolous garlic breath had on the Emir of Granada between 756 and 929 AD.

Garlic is a lazy answer to the diner’s quest for flavours. By solely relying on the snottiest of sulfurous vegetables available, the diner’s palate will slowly but relentlessly turn numb - plagued as it is by certified halitosis and Allyl methyl sulfide (AMS), the most insidious of organosulfur compounds.

Not to mention culinary imagination. Stifled by the mind-numbing haze emanating from the evil clove, the notion that you can lovingly experimenting with herbs, spices, powders and grains will become all but a redundant exercise.

Contrary to popular myth, garlic is also not good for you. Far from relieving heart problems, it exacerbates them, as a randomised clinical trial funded by the National University of Minnesota (NUM) in the United States and published in the Archives of Breath Medicine in 2007 found. Quite simply, the consumption of garlic in any form did not reduce blood cholesterol levels in patients with moderately high baseline cholesterol levels.

In addition, it is far from proven that garlic helps increase the level of insulin in the body, thereby reducing sugar levels in the blood. Quite simply, these are just duplicitous and manipulative rumours spread around by the all-too-powerful lobby of garlic farmers.

In short, Nutro wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t warn you to keep away from garlic. Just steer clear of it. If for no other purpose, at least do it for that poor spouse of yours, no doubt battered by years of putting up with abominable breath stemming out of your gob.

Yogurt

Today’s increasingly demanding lifestyle is enough to put exhorbitant pressure on everybody’s guts.

Stress levels are rocketing, meals are getting stodgier, entertainment programmes on the television sets are increasingly more akin to bear baiting than likely to induce relaxation. And more.

It’s no wonder more and more people are complaining of battered digestive system, intestinal dysfunctions and rectum feeling like lava.

And that’s because everytime we are running late for work, our brain cells send direct messages to the inferior anal nerves (also known as the inferior hemorrohoidal nerve) causing the  ischiorectalfossa along with the hemorrhoidal vessels to contract.

Nothing bad, I hear you say. Not if it happens regularly. Because if it does, you’d better hop to the supermarket and get hold of some bleach for those embarrassingly red-stained underpants: it’s your inferior mesenteric ganglia nudging you. It’s time for a Plan B!

And Plan B comes in the guise of the excellent yogurt.

Yogurt (often spelt yoghurt or even yoghourt) is none other than custardlike food with a tart flavor, prepared from milk curdled by bacteria, especially Lactobacillus bulgaricus and Streptococcus thermophilus, and often sweetened or flavored with fresh fruit pulp (or pulpa de fruta in Latin).

But yogurt is not just a concoction of bacillus and streptococcus. It’s much more than that.

Yogurt is life. Yogurt is health. Yogurt is pleasure. And these are not my words, but those of the ancient Persian Emperor Francis Al Gurt, the first person to appreciate the soothing and healing qualities associated with the custardy melange.

Affected by severrohea (an ancient variety of serious diarrhea), Emperor Al Gurt asked his best scientists to find him a potion that would finally placate those disloyal (some would say anarchical) guts of his.

Legend has it that, around that same time, a man called Yog Al Mahal attempted suicide by guzzling a spoonful of pure bacteria that were hanging around his laboratory. Unfortunately for him, Yog Al Mahal didn’t die, he just suffered from severe intestinal impaction, to the point that he had to be rushed to hospital to have his guts split open and his stools surgically removed.

This caught the eye of one of Al Gurt’s scientists, a man known as Pliny the Elder. The brainy man clocked that whatever triggered digestive impaction in Yog Al Mahal could offer a long-lasting solution to hyperactive giblets.

He managed to speak to Yog Al Mahal and grabbed precious information about the bacteria he’d used. In no time at all, Pliny the Elder was back in his lab, concocting potions that would include fibrillus, staphilococcus as well as copious amounts of lactobacillus.

The latter proved to be the most restless to tame. Pliny the Elder discovered that, if not refrigerated the lactobacillus would go into overdrive, mutate into a type of spores known as bambacoa acidus and mangle the hapless fibriulls and staphilococcus, therefore hampering the chances of a successful culture.

Pliny, however, soon managed to dilute the lactobacillus in milk, therefore allowing it to ferment and calm down. Within a month, the curded melange was born.

Unable to come up with a name, the scientist decided that a tribute to both Emperor Al Gurt and Yog Al Mahal would be an apt decision. The name Yog Gurt was born. That day, a billion intestines around the world celebrated with glee.

Because, by heating the culture to about 80 °C (176 °F), Pliny the Elder discovered that the hemorrhoidal vessels are allowed to deflate and return to normal. Most importantly, however, the curd like consistency of the gurty good allow the bowels to mop up the excess water that lurks behind maldigestion, gastrointestinal infections and loose intestines.

Back to the 21st century, one final tip from Nutro. When luxuriating in the curdy good, remember to use a silver teaspoon and roll your eyes upward as you savour the gurto. So packed the curd is with live bacteria and active lifestyle that you won’t believe the pleasure. It’ll be the perfect way to start the day! Yum yum!

Maccie D’s

The other day a good pal of mine and fellow nutritionist rang me on my blower and asked me where I was:

“It sounds busy out there, Nutro…Where are you?”, he enquired.
“I’m at a restaurant”, was my reply, “a busy restaurant”.
“Oh really, good Nutro? Whereabouts?”.
“What do you mean wheraabouts?”. I was confused.
“I mean, which restaurants…where are you?”, he insisted.

“Oh. I see. I’m in a restaurant called McDonald’s. I’m enjoying one of their sandwiches”.

You should have heard the silence coming from the other end of the line. Stone dead.

“Hello? Hello?”, I repeated, while an irksome bit of 100% pure USDA inspected beef was stuck between two of my incisors and my uvula was still grappling with the delicious and slightly acidic aftertaste of Canola oil (made by crushing the rapeseed) from the patty.

No answer. My fellow nutritionist pal was outraged, so much so that he hung up on me.

Some people’s relationship with McDonald’s can be difficult to unravel.

There are some who hate it.

Those pathetic tadpoles see it as the Root of all Evil, a conspiratorial embodiment of anything bad that’s ever happened to them. “McDonald’s serve junk food”, the whining goes. Or “It’s not nutritious”, “It’s bad for you and bad for the environment” and so on - those punks do nothing but stamp their feet on the floor in a strop or whinge from their moral high horse.

Entire docufilms have been made about the allegations that Mr McDonald is the cause behind people’s obesity rates, gout, bad breath, heart problems and varicose veins.

Any excuse to blame someone else but yourself.  Grow up, this is what Nutro says.

Because the truth is: McDonalds are amongst the top and most nutritious restaurants in the world. Their quality is second to none, so is their commitment to Sustainability™ and so are their sandwiches. Look how packed they are with enriched flour and corn syrup solids. No wonder millions of people everyday keep going back for more.

For one thing, no other restaurant would go to the lengths McDonalds do to explain in detail what’s inside their dinners. Do you really think that the bread you’re eagerly gobbing with your eyes agaze while sitting in that pretentious Michelin star restaurant is just pure flour and water?

Can you think of any rustic bakery or French boulangerie establishment candidly admitting that their mouthwateringly fragrant bagels are none other than a mix of bleached wheat flour, malted barley flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin and folic acid?

Would you expect your local chip shop to plaster their walls with the news that their lovely fried potatoes are basted in antifoaming agent Dimethylpolysiloxylane (chemical formula C₈H₂₄O₂Si₃₎?

Well, no. And neither do I. At least McDonalds are open about it and they’re proudly wearing their ingredients on their sleeves.

It’s exactly the genius concoction of the ingredients listed above (as well as plenty more) that make their lovingly prepared food so toothsome.

Look at their most popular item on the Menu: the BigMac™.

First of all, no other burger in the world is as tall as the BigMac™. They don’t even come near. Just look at how proud that sandwich looks as it towers over all those other underachieving and rickety products.

But most importantly, no other hamburger on the planet can offer the same combination of sear-sizzled 100% pure beef, the purest table salt, crunchy Monocots and tomato concentrate from red ripe tomatoes, also known as salsa ketchup.

A BigMac™ is a complete meal. Kids love it and they know it’s good for them.

There’s the energy-packed carbs (made particularly tasty by copius amounts of Canola oil perused in the patty), there’s the crunchy lettuce leaves (which is to the sizzled beef what Robin was to Batman), the osteoporosis-busting onions, and of course, that tantalising garnish in the shape of a yellowy cheese slice, packed as it is with natural mold inhibitor.

And, lest we forget, the actual dinner: a juicy, freshly-prepared, made-to-order 100% Angus beef steak, 4 oz of fit-for-a-king goodness and that’s without even counting the flavour-enriching maltodextrin and tamarind powder!

Just that drop of nectarous mustard, the perfect condiment to the perfect McDonalds sandwich, contributes 5mg of pure sodium to your diet, which is a godsend for all those poor souls suffering from severe dehydration caused by diarrhea.

Not to mention that all McDonalds sandwiches are served with a generous helping of the crunchiest French Fries available which, like Nutro argued in the past, totally contribute to your precious five-a-day intake.

Remember that it is absolutely mandatory that the spuds are part of your order: there are no better friends around than fried potatoes. They’re always there for you and you only miss them when they’re missing. And, in case you didn’t know, those at McDonald’s are fried 100% in hydrogenated soybean oil with TBHQ, or tertiary butylhydroquinone, which does not cause discoloration even in the presence of iron.

Yes, at higher doses it may have some negative health effects on lab animals, such as producing precursors to stomach tumors and damage to DNA. But, I mean, which food isn’t bad if consumed in higher doses? And who cares, if you can treat yourself to a complete juicy meal for less than a fiver?

But don’t let the tree-huggers spoil your meal. Make sure it’s washed down with a generous paper cup of draught Coca Cola™, the most refreshing drink ever produced by an American, so thirst-quenching and so morish that entire crews of sneaky espionage agents have been trying to plagiarize its secret formula for the best part of a century.

Legend has it that Coca Cola™ is so refreshing that the actual Spanish word for drink, refresco, was coined after parched King of Spain Alfonso XIII  sipped the beverage for the first time in 1891.

The carbonated soft-drink par excellance is the perfect companion to your BigMac™, or the flaky Filet O'Fish™ (from the deep, cold waters of the Pacific Ocean), or the Quarter Pounder with Cheese (*weight before cooking 4 oz. - 113.4g) or even the Premium Crispy Chicken Ranch BLT Sandwich™.

Especially with the latter, you’ll find that Coca Cola™ complements the carrageenan and maltodextrin typical of battery chickens like there was no tomorrow.

And that is because the researchers at McDonalds have invested time and resources in finding the perfect chemical balance to disinhibit those lofty taste inhibitors that too often populate the gustatory areas of the brain via the seventh, ninth and tenth cranial nerves. It’s exactly frome those areas that the process known as gustation takes place and impulses are sent over to get the best out of your tastebuds.

There’s nothing like the taste of a chicken reared in the warmth of a packed battery farm side by side with hundreds of other chickens. Those animals are farmed especially for you and your fussy taste receptors. None of that time wasted on perching and walking and mating. Stuffed with plenty of food, those chickens will be the weight of a full adult and ready for slaughter after a mere 42 days instead of the usual three months. Pure meat.

And, of course, all in line with Sustainability™ policies.

So take your kids to a McDonalds restaurant, stuff their gob with a burger sandwich and raise that large size of McDonalds Beverage. Enjoy.