One chain, (which I shall not identify because that’d be mean, but it isn’t Burger King, and they have a thing for clowns) has finally broken my goggles, to where they do nothing. This chain (not Wendy’s, and they sound vaguely Scottish) invites us to “try all four world-wide favorites”. While the notion that there are any world-wide favorites is odd, given human-kind’s affinity for fighting over anything, we’ll chalk that up to mere hyperbole. It is the supposed world-wide favorites themselves the which I have issue with.
The chain (not in-n-out, and who took its name from two brothers whose actual, well, name it was) conveniently marks each offering with the flag of its supposed country of origin.
First. Stroopwafel McFlurry. Netherlands. Ok, the stroopwafel is quintessentially Dutch. I’ll give them that. Of course, no right-thinking, never-drink-the-water, bicycle-riding speed-skating enthusiast would ever violate a stroopwafel in this way. Civilized people, heck - humans - know to put the thing over their cup of tea or coffee, let it slightly soften, and bite chunks out of it to make funny shapes. Blending it with whatever that flurry stuff is, is anathema. But, at least, the name is (partly) Dutch, as is the (shudder) inspiration.
But next. Tomato Mozzarella Chicken Sandwich. Canada. Yes, Canada. Now, I’ve been to Canada. Many excellent food-items have at least a de-minimis Canadian feel or connection. If you wanted to stereotype, you could make a Canadian Tyre sandwich. Or a Maple Glazed Donut Quarter Pounder. Fucking Mozarella?
Next. Cheesy Bacon Fries. Australia. I mean, good on ya mate for not making a joke out of Australian culinary tradition by managing to avoid the word barbie. But you went overboard like Jack went overboard the Titanic right before that bitch didn’t share her float, by avoiding any connection, whatsoever, to anything remotely Australian. This is like having a Christmas song be about an appendectomy in May.
Last. Best. Grand McExtreme Bacon Burger. Spain. But wait! They give it a Spanish flair by adding Gouda cheese. Gouda of course being a town in the Netherlands. Now, technically, Gouda was Spanish. Once. Not in 1960, but for a bit in the early 17th century, a brief phase abruptly ended early in the eighty-years war. (1672 or thereabouts). Maybe the geniuses at Hamburger University knew this, and are slyly telling us that the cheese they use is really, really fucking old. But when looking at the totality of the 4 internationally acclaimed culinary favorites, Occam demands we conclude that they came up with four new-ish delivery vehicles for fat, salt and carbs, and (I’d like to think inspired by Eddie Izzard, but fat fucking chance) they stuck a flag on it.
I’ve seen more effort to stick to the supposed theme in a kindergarten fingerpainting project cut short by a fire drill. I’ve seen more research done picking the colors for a frat-house kitchen towel. And call me naive, I expected better.
Now, I claim this unnamed, anonymous chain is the dumbest, assuming facts not actually introduced into evidence. But they have to be, right? RIGHT? 
