I read a breathless report online that a mac & cheese emporium has opened recently in such and such neighbourhood, and I scoff. The macaroni and cheese restaurant craze is this Age’s equivalent of opening a go-kart track in the 80’s, a faux entrepreneurship, the ineluctable evidence of the absence of an idea.
Goddamn millenials, too lazy to make their own damn macaroni and cheese, and throw in sliced hotdogs to give it nutritional substance, glop in some BBQ sauce you boosted from the restaurant for added flavour, or adding in a handful of frozen vegetables to turn it into pasta primavera. I guess they’re too busy snapchatting in the nude to boil some goddamn water their own selves.
Macaroni and cheese is the food of the broke-ass university student, or at worst the meal-equivalent of the space-saver tire, something you throw together when you’re too lazy to go out and grocery shop.
My coworker’s roommate, way way back, had found a supplier for the nuclear-orange goop-powder you get in an envelope in every box, so he bought that in bulk, and the same for the noodles, and he swiped butter packets and coffee creamers at his workplace's cafeteria. We’d be watching hockey and eating pizza, and he’d sneer at us for having to pitch in $7 each, he’d tell us how he’d brought the cost of a macaroni and cheese meal down to a quarter or so, compared to $2 for the KD box. And only one pot and one fork to clean, he’d chortle, as he scraped the bottom of the aluminium pan he favoured. Then he’d help himself to one of our beers.
Forget the Fort McMurray fires, the fact that people will buy a $18 bowl of macaroni and cheese is the most transparent sign of the impending apocalypse.