United Steaks of America

Take that, you countries that aren't America!

The U.S. is so kick-ass, so totally awesome, that even its food is proud! Honored to be raised in stinking pens—treated like meat cogs in a machine manufactured to chew them up and spit them out as stuff to buy and eat—the steers and pigs and chickens cheer on the home team. No divided loyalties for them. No conflicted feelings. Being American food is never having to doubt.

And these animals have some weight to throw around, make no mistake. Look at those biceps on the walking collection of American steaks. Check out the determined, clenched jaw. Dude could take a mother out. But like other tamed Goliaths, he wouldn't dream of upsetting the status quo. No sir, he's a good American "food" animal, and he knows his duty: To die and be eaten for the greater glory of the U.S.A.!






Addendum: U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

Ables' Bar-B-Q and Steak House

We can hardly believe it either, but it's been three and a half years since we first checked in on the wild world of Barbecue Battling.

It started here, with these pigs staring each other down. Then we went here, and pigs (and a cow) fighting it out with barbecue implements. Finally, more than a year and a half ago, these fight-happy pigs got in on the act. And now, demonstrating that this is one sport that just won't die (even if its competitors will), these two go at it in Antlers, Oklahoma.

It's a pastime we aren't equipped to understand. Modern-day gladiators in kerchiefs vie for the opportunity to die. They thrust and parry, delighting in the infliction of wounds, their own and their rivals'.

Then, for the lucky victor, it's death and consumption! Sure, sure, the loser wins the same prize. But don't tell them that. It'll ruin their motivation.

The re-revised map of the Barbecue Battle Belt, which takes into account the location of Ables'. (Able's? Abels's?)








(Thanks to Dr. Megan for the referral and the photo.)

Jocko's Steak House

Yes, follow him. In doing so, you will be satisfying one of his dearest wishes: that he be eaten with great gusto.

This brutish coquette! The way he tempts and teases with the toothpick, dislodging imaginary gristle in leering testament to the way he hopes you will pick clean your teeth of his rubbery remains! His insinuating eyes! His languid pose!

He beckons with scarcely concealed erotic threat.

And through and beneath it all, a homely jocularity that calls to mind the golden age of burlesque. Jocko's is held, in the finest knee-slapping tradition of populist Americana, to stand for Jenuine Oak Coals Kooks Our Steaks. (Evidence.)

(Thanks to Dr. Kiki Maraschino for permission to use the image.)

Sizzler

What touches us so very deeply about this is its simplicity. We don't mean the primitivist graphic design. We mean the so-obvious-it's-invisible shift that this matchbook embodies.

The home of steak lovers.

Do you see it?

Look again.

Who are the steak lovers? Are they the putative customers of the Sizzler chain of steakhouses? Or are they, as depicted here, the cows—that is, the walking, living steaks—who are lovers?

For that matter, what family are we talking about? The diners who pull up and clamor for steak, or the mommy cow, daddy steer, and baby calf?

The purpose of this deliberate muddle, this implicit ambiguity, is to imbue a steakhouse with the traditional values of love and marriage. That suicidal animals should be this commercial message's vehicle is wearyingly familiar.

(Image source. Information on the image's Creative Commons license.)

Poll-ette Hostess

Pollettes, for the three of you out there who somehow don't already know, are women involved in the promotion, and presumably the eating, of polled hereford cows.

How that leads to this thing is beyond us.

The cow, a stand-in for your typical Pollette, is the picture of domestic solicitude. All gussied up with her gingham bow, she oozes polite/poll-ette charm. As the fragrant steam from the slab of cow meat reaches her flared nostrils, her tongue peeks out. She is demure, but piqued: the steak she dare not taste—not yet, not until you have been served—lies bookended on her plate.

Will she finally give in, to the deliciously forbidden? To her truest nature?

Will the country gal enter into the wider world?

Will the bow, the pristine bow, come down?

(Thanks to Dr. Heath for the referral.)

Happy Valentine's Day: a digression

Is there any better way to tell your special someone "I love you" than a slab of beef shaped like a Valentine's Day heart?

While we're on the subject, is there any better way to tell the cow in your life "I hate you" than a slab of beef shaped like a Valentine's Day heart?

Either way, this is the finest example of suicidefoodism's fabled inability to keep love and death separate. The movement's pathology forever confuses one for the other, creating in the process a gory mess of turbulent emotions.

Reindeer Meat Novelty

It's not Christmas without all the trappings of the season. The holly, the scent of nutmeg, and Rudolph the Dead Ghost Reindeer and his collection of lurid red reindeer steaks!

Many of Santa's flying friends are here, in post-life, food form: Vixen sirloin, Prancer porterhouse, Rudolph round steak, and the others.

If you look closely you can even see Saint Nick, that elfin old ghoul, sneaking around with his sack in one hand and a bloody slab of reindeer meat in the other!

We can only assume that the Naughty/Nice split has become complicated in these modern times. The Nice get toys, the Naughty get coal, and the Unspeakable get raw meat that once had a name!

That this gag (you ain't kidding!) is in the service of yuletide festivities sends a chill up our spine.

Buck's Naked BBQ Steakhouse & Juke Joint

The pig—we are assuming that rodentine creature is, evidence to the contrary, a pig—is enamored of his naked buttocks. He wants you to admire them, to touch them, and, we fear, to eat them.

Moreover, he is sitting upon the Buck's sign—yes—with his bare bottom. Unhygienic and borderline aggressive, Buck is determined to die. He's just not willing to sacrifice his clothing-optional lifestyle on the road to his wonderful (and wonderfully naked) death.

This is one of the least effective, yet most naked, come-ons we've seen in a while.

What We've Been Missing 3: a digression

Every now and then (most recently, here) we feel driven to wallow in the consequences of our poor decisions. We have arrived at another such opportunity for reflection. Yes, the time has come again for us to wonder "what if?" What if we had not turned from the culinary path that stretched before us like a red (and moist) carpet? What wondrous fare we could have sampled!

Here follow more examples of "irresistible" food prepared by actual professional food-preparers.


We're just going to say it. We're half-convinced this is actually a bowl of used condoms. (The perpetrators claim it is steamed ribs.)








It looks prechewed, predigested, and thoroughly prevolting.











This dish represents the best of both worlds: livid, raw flesh married to an ancient, leathery rind of meat.









Picture it: The year is 3009. Humanity has inherited a bizarre and frightening Earth. Insects the size of poodles swarm the ashy skies. When they hit the windscreens of whizzing hover-sedans, this is the result. Lunch!

Otis and the Bird

We've covered plenty of fanciful imagery here, so it's nice to profile something straight out of, you know, reality.

A pig and chicken cowboy, hats pulled down low, just lazing by the fire after a full day's… work?

As The Bird hoists the rotgut, Otis offers up the traditional cowboy toast: a slab of the cook and good wishes for a manly death, painless or otherwise.

Beneath a blanket of starlight, a snake (only the third ever profiled) huddles close.

The whole thing is so realistic, you have to look closely to see that it's not a photograph; it's a drawing!

Having made that discovery, we realized that maybe some of the details of the scene are actually fictional. First off, in real life, pigs and chickens are seldom employed as cowboys. And—from everything we've ever learned—the ones who are wouldn't be propping themselves up on logs around the campfire. No, sir! They'd be smack-dab in the middle of the fire, where nothing is left to chance! And, if those livestock/cowpokes are anything like the hundreds of animals we've come to know so well, they could also be counted on to strangle the snake and drag him into the flames behind them!

Sometimes we just don't know who to believe.

Mr. Steak

He's not Mr. Steer. Or Fred.

No. He's Mr. Steak.

His identity is inextricably bound up with the foodstuff he will become. He only achieves his meager personhood in relation to his eventual death and consumption.

We feel for Mr. Steak. What might he have accomplished, had he been surrounded by people who cared about him, and not merely the meat from which he was made? Who could he have been?

His doom was foretold even at his christening.

Imagine an alternate ceremony:

When called into being, he is known as Black Beauty, instead. Or, say, Resolute. Or Glory. Even, yes, Fred. All of these would have made fine names for a steer with as much potential as Mr. Steak once had.

But no.
















He was branded from his earliest days, his thoughts crammed into a crate whose boundaries were defined by his death. Therefore, the goofy, brainless expression.

And the buttons and the plastic, um… puppets? Nothing is so trivial as to be beneath his endorsement.











Addendum: We know everything we need to about this poor freak.

What We've Been Missing 2: a digression

Do you remember our first "What We've Been Missing" digression? We do. In fact, we haven't been able to get the rancid taste out of our mouth. We are referring, of course, to the flavor of regret.

Oh! Had we but made other choices! Had we taken a different path through life's mysterious terrain, our palates would have been richly rewarded! Looking at culinary creations like these, we begin to understand the instructive "Yum, meat!" comments we receive so often here.

Please note: All "What We've Been Missing" entrées were prepared by actual (undisclosed) food establishments. With a straight face.


The Bristle 'n' Gristle Sandwich is a real mouth-waterer. Look! Some of it is trying to escape!











Is this a spread, or is this a spread? It's the perfect main dish for your next party of buzzards and other carrion-eaters! Just set the poor thing out, and let 'em pick and peck away.









The steak that doubles as a hankie. (Gesundheit.)










This only looks like flaccid, fermented cardboard on a bun. It's actually steamed or… boiled animal parts. On a bun.

Matt's Catfish and Steakhouse

Something has been troubling us lately. No, not the unending stream of indecency, not the sexy chickens, deranged cows, and soulless pigs. No, we've been wondering whether we might be reading too much into the images we discuss.

Take the Matt's Catfish and Steakhouse catfish. When we look on him, we see the same old dreck: an animal who is inviting us—all of us—to eat him.

Fin extended, he waves us on. This way, this way! This way to succulently dead fish!

His giant, gaping smile is the standard death-loving rictus of suicidefood. If we've seen it hundreds of times, we've seen it thousands of times.

He jiggles with excitement. He sweats happily, contemplating the moment when he and his consumer will consummate their relationship. By which he means the moment when he will surpass mere death and move onto the holiest of holies: inert object.

But wait.

Are we only seeing what we "want" to see?

Recontextualized, could the same catfish communicate a different message?



In this second (also genuine) image, his joyous perspiration now appears to be the manifestation of his fear. His "arm" now looks to be fending off a blow. His open-mouthed grin is full of terror.

"Why me?"

He knows his end is nigh and can only petition an unjust universe.

Or… Is this the authentic representation of the catfish's inner state? We'll never know for sure.

Cabaña Las Lilas

Way down in old Buenos Aires, travelers craving luxury might rendezvous at Cabaña Las Lilas, a famed beefhouse in this beefiest of cities.

If you were to order a steak, as is required by law there, you would be served a succulent slab. Perched atop the steaming hunk, you would find a charming little fellow.

See him there?

While we don't understand the purpose of the wee signpost—do they suppose you might have forgotten what you ordered or where you ordered it?—we can't but admire the cow's spirit.

"It is I!" he seems to declare. "I am here and you will eat me!"






















Here, in this temple dedicated to the indelible, edible memory of the once-alive, he has found his proper place at last. Here, he is sophistication itself. No more the merely cute, now he is memorialized!

"Estoy jugoso," he squeaks. I am juicy.

Even left behind, indigestible, floating in a cloud of his, um, juice, he has made the journey worthwhile.

Yes, little dead cow. You are very, very juicy indeed.

(Thanks to Dr. Marie Fromage for the first photo, to Dr. ddanzig for the second, and to Dr. Mixirica and her Buenos Aires flickr set for the third.)