J. D. Salinger, one of the world's great writers, thought Burger King's flame-grilled Whopper burger was a terrific invention. It was "better than just edible", he wrote in a letter just released — and certainly far superior to the burgers offered by other establishments.
If Salinger — Zen Buddhist recluse and intellectual — could gain such pleasure from a Whopper, it raises the question: are there other oft-derided aspects of ordinary life deserving of a little more praise?
Instant coffee, for example. Who, amid the coffee Nazism of our time, would dare admit that instant coffee is actually a pretty good drink?
Advertisement: Story continues below The typical Sydney workplace is now full of crazed coffee zealots who feel the need to lecture you for hours about the differences between this coffee shop and that coffee shop and their preference for a macchiato as opposed to a double-shot espresso with ristretto tendencies.
Really? How interesting. Tell me more.
Actually don't say that or they will, filling you in on the employment history of their favourite barista with the sort of hushed reverence once reserved for a favoured saint. When this particular barista has a day off, the whole office falls into a slough of despond, with people wondering aloud whether they will be able to face up to the challenges of the day ahead without the succour provided by one of Michael's flat whites.
They should just have a cup of instant and get on with it.
The truth is that instant coffee costs a few cents a cup and most of the time tastes better than the bitter, dirty brew slopped into your cup via the clogged pipes of some ill-managed high street machine.
Better still, the cheaper the brand of instant coffee, the better it tastes. Oh, for a cup of International Roast heaped with a spoonful of sugar and a glug of full-cream milk. Enjoy in moderation but just don't admit to your colleagues how bloody delicious it is.
I'd also like to see more praise heaped on Sydney tap water, a product as ubiquitous and rarely celebrated as the Whopper. Much of the world lacks decent drinking water; we have it on tap and yet insist on buying plastic bottles of the stuff.
Since when did a walk in the park necessitate constant drinking or, as it is now called, "hydration"? Watch people on the Bondi to Bronte walk and it's as if they are attempting a crossing of the Serengeti. Some have several bottles of the stuff and take a sip every three steps as if their body is a bucket with a hole in the bottom, through which a stream of water constantly gushes. The bubbler doesn't appear to provide a solution: that would be just drinking water, while what they need to do is "hydrate".
Will a future generation of Sydney children, calling from their rooms at bedtime, no longer demand "a glass of water, please, daddy" but instead shriek, "Mummy, quick, quick. I need rehydrating"?
Since bottled water didn't really exist 20 years ago, can someone explain how humans survived up to this point? Did Sydneysiders just stay at home, tethered to the tap, unable to venture outside lest they fall into a thirst-induced coma within a few steps of the front door? Or did office workers and shoppers wander down George Street African-style, a yoke thrown across their shoulders with a bucket of water sloshing around on each side?
Actually, Sydney tap water tastes terrific. It almost tastes as wonderful as a Whooper. As J. D. Salinger himself might put it, it's "better than drinkable".
The home-cooked meal also deserves a lot more praise. Restaurant chefs go on and on about "using fresh ingredients simply prepared" but then never follow through. Everything is presented in little towers, as if the plate was valuable real estate. It's then splashed with a melange of butter, cream and salt in a way designed to cause a heart attack, if that isn't already in train once you see the prices on the menu.
The only place you actually get "fresh ingredients simply prepared" is at home. A chop, mashed potatoes and some steamed beans. Maybe Leo Schofield could come around to your place and describe just how fantastic it tastes.
Cask wine also needs rehabilitation; it has seen far too much criticism over the years, derided by names such as the "Broadmeadow briefcase" and "the goon sack".
The contents might be unremarkable but the price is good, the packaging allows you to fool yourself about how much you are drinking and the silver bladder inside provides either an impromptu disco ball or an excellent pillow, depending on the progress of the party. Really, it's not so much a drink as a complete party kit.
Once we admit the Whopper tastes pretty good, we may have to reconsider many of the other things we've spent the past few decades criticising. Domestic beer? Frankly, it's much better than the imported stuff, all of which is quite stale by the time it gets here.
A kebab from the local shops? Let's face it: fantastic. Network television? Well, it is kind of relaxing after a long day at work.
The virtues of the ordinary and the every day? Maybe J. D. Salinger's love of the Whopper was a little bit Zen after all.
richard@richardglover.com.au
