Ketchup blob aside

In Jonathan Lethem’s new novel, A Gambler’s Anatomy, the protagonist gets some “mad props” (and an extra slider) from the owner of a burger shop when he squirts ketchup and mustard on the paper plate beside his burger rather than on the sweaty meat itself.

Although this interaction takes place over a single paragraph on page 104 of a 300-page book, I could not get past its real life applications. As much as the approval of a burger chef is to be sought in all situations, dipping their culinary creation into a condiment is patently ridiculous. It’s akin to eating a chicken wing with a knife and fork.

It represents subtraction by addition. Adding an extra step to the burger consuming process is an affront to not only the efficiency of the dish, but the very nature of the sandwich. It’s meant to be an allencompassing meal, entirely housed between two buns. A burger, it must be said, is not a package of Dunk-a-roos.

However, after spending an admittedly foolish amount of time considering this throwaway moment from the book, my own hypocrisies were revealed to me like I was a Sadducee being confronted by Jesus. How could I deride such a procedure, when the idea of zig-zagging ketchup on soon-tobe-soaked french fries seems as ghastly a practice as pouring jus over a roast beef sandwich?

The same principles should apply. Do I not prefer a more controlled dispersal of condiments for my french fries? As I near the end of my fries supply, do I not want to circumvent any procedure that might be likened to inserting one’s fingers into a bullet hole in search of a slug buried deep in blood and body? And if all of this is true, why shouldn’t I also feel the same way about my burger?

Never has writing caused such introspection as this.

Try as I might, though, I’m incapable of bringing myself to dip a burger into a condiment. Blame my upbringing. Blame society. Blame anything that can act as a scapegoat for whatever indecency it is within myself I’m too afraid to seek out as the actual culprit. It makes perfect sense to dip a burger. Everything I value and believe to be true prompts me toward this direction, but I can’t do it. And now, I don’t know who I am anymore.

Through literature, condiments, burgers and fries, I have been forced to better understand my own weakness. I must confront the fact that I am a walking, living, breathing contradiction. And believe me when I tell you, coming to such an awakening is nothing to relish.