McRib: Rare treat or weird, processed meat?
Once or twice a year, McDonald’s restaurants coyly change their store signage and advertising messaging to announce the return of the McRib sandwich. McRib fever soon grips the nation, and even the hippest of food snobs will confess to an ironically not-ironic craving for the elusive item.
As a furtive fan of soulless, populist junk food, I have a confession: Until last week, I’d never eaten a McRib.
As a child, McDonald’s was just an occasional treat for our family, and I refused to squander my precious time at McD’s with an unfamiliar, possibly disgusting meatwich like the McRib. It was plain hamburgers all the way in those days. Since then, I’ve been periodically exposed to the McRib multiple times, my disinterest deepening with every glimpse of the Rib’s drippy barbecue sauce and freakish faux-rib-rack innards.
At last, curiosity got the better of me. I finally ordered my first McRib, with some anxiety, from a Denver drive-through window. I didn’t even have to ask for it—the lady working the drive-through started our transaction with, “Would you like to try a McRib combo today?” Answer: a dry, faint “yes.”
I got the thing home and opened up the box: Yep, there it is. Just like in the commercials, the real McRib oozed barbecue sauce. Underneath the oblong bun were roughly chopped onions, a few pickles, and the menacing meat patty. The meat is what really sets the McRib apart—pork formed into the shape of a slab of ribs, complete with ridges to represent protruding bones. It’s so weirdly fake that it transcends the ick factor and becomes straight-up kitschy.
The McRib lives up to its advertising hype in presentation. Taste-wise, it’s a big letdown. I was expecting a pleasant surprise, something that would justify the annual McRib excitement. Instead, I got a weak simulacrum of a barbecued pork sandwich. It’s like training wheels for real barbecue. For foreigners.
The meat has a spongy texture at the bite, but with a very slight, unsettling snap, like an old sausage. It tastes vaguely of pork, with the juiciness to back that up, but the fake format creates dissonance. What is this? It leaves an impression of pork. It’s pork-esque.
The sauce is rudimentary, all sweetness and smoke, with no character. Pickles and onions are always nice—I found myself moving them around strategically to create extra-good bites. The bun is probably the best part. Unlike most fast-food buns, which have about a 50-50 chance of being stale at any time, the McRib bun was soft and fresh.
Yes, it’s pretty silly to critique McDonald’s. Of course it’s going to be mundane. They’ve got to appeal to the broadest customer base at all times, and that includes the personal tastes of millions of people. I’m not a snob—I’ll eat a Pizza Hut pie with the best of ’em. But with all the McRib’s contrived scarcity and consumer glee, I expected something more exotic, something more, well, real.
Sorry, Ronald. Next time McRib mania rolls around, I’ll leave it for the fans.
The McRib is available at McDonald's until Nov. 14.
